


Clandestine

by KingLegolasG



Category: Hitman (2007), Hitman: Absolution, Original Work
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingLegolasG/pseuds/KingLegolasG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>47 finds himself in Los Angeles for a seemingly unnecessary leave of absence. His week off from contract killing might convince him that the time away from work was more essential to his humanity than he had at first imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Complications at a Coffee Shop

47 was happy with the reprieve he was finally given. He had a week of time off thanks to a quickly healing bullet wound to his side. He could easily have protested the idea with a scoff, and a wave of his hand, he would have his next mission. The idea of a break from his life of the same old routines performed in a never ending string of hotel rooms was attractive to say the least, so he accepted.

Since so much of his time was spent in Europe he decided to go to the least European place he could think of; Los Angeles. With it's bustling crowds and self-obsessed people he could easily blend in. Despite being on vacation, his guns remained in their holster. Even with the left pistol rubbing against the stitches hidden under his pristine white shirt, he didn't shift to accommodate.

His choice of cafe was dictated by his ability to be well hidden should there be a sniper around, and there being just the right amount of patrons. It wasn't overcrowded and it wasn't barren. Perfect for him to blend in. He was further brought to ease with his choice by the warm scent of coffee and breakfast pastries that entered his senses as he stepped inside, escaping from the smoggy city.

A few minutes, and dollars. later and he was able to relax into a seat at a small table, his back facing the wall so he could keep an eye on the entire world around him. He scanned the cafe as he did each new place he entered, making a note of all exits and all possible weapons.

The shop was like any other in America, everything a shade of items from the baristas. The walls were a milk-foam cream, the floor tiles alternating in a rich coffee color and a milky tea color. All the tables and chairs seemed to be a shade of brown, from caramel to nearly black for trim and frames. The windows were large enough to see through, but they didn't let in a blinding amount of sun, even being in Southern California in the summertime.

His eyes fell on a woman a short distance away, enthralled in her book with her hair down and catching the light of the sun. He had meant to do a quick sweep of the place, and he finished his task but found his eyes drawn to her again. Everyone else was dull, boring, too focused on typing away on their fancy laptops, or reading their electronic books. Some were rudely chatting on their phones, but 47 knew well what to expect in Los Angeles. What had drawn him back to the woman was the fact she was reading an actual book. He hadn't realized how almost rare they had become until he noticed she was the only one handling actual paper.

Her small hands tug carefully at a chocolate croissant, as if she would hurt it by pulling on it too sharply, sticky bits of melting chocolate just barely coat her finger tips, catching the flaking crumbs of her meal. Her black house coffee mirrors his, and her expression is that of a small, adoring smile, as if the book she is reading is something dear to her. And 47 can't help but find it odd, how she wears her skirt suit and manages to look so soft, so small and vulnerable. His suits make him look so sharp, so powerful, that the idea that someone can look as she does leaves him dumbstruck.

There's something beautiful about it, he decides, his sharp blue eyes taking in her features as he curls his hand around his mug, his middle and ring finger shifting into the space of the handle. From the way her nose wrinkles at something within her book, to the tentative manner in which she sucks the chocolate off the pads of her fingers. So intent on her book, and the manner of her cleaning so innocent, it ends up not seeming impolite.

She glances up then, right as he is about to look away, and he's caught. His eyes lock with hers, his mug brushing against his lips as he was about to take a sip. She smiles, however, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Even from here, 47 can see faint scars. Blunt force, likely with a fist, and his eyes instantly look for other signs to determine what the story is there, but her voice pulls his eyes back up to hers without hesitation.

"Long week, hmm?" she asks of him, and her voice is softer than he believed it would be. It's automatically kind, gentle. She slowly rests her chin on the back of her hand, a bit of chocolate still clinging to her thumb and middle finger, and he takes the chance to observe her knuckles. No damage, no callous. Whatever happened, she never fought back.

As his eyes return to hers she realizes something is off about him, but she can't place what it is. It doesn't startle her, and she's happy to lean forward a bit, studying him and that single splash of color via his blood red full windsor knotted tie. It makes her smile a little larger, exposing a few teeth and causing her nose to wrinkle in her own amusement.

She takes the time to study the strength in his jaw, able to see just how developed the muscle is thanks to his shaven head. She is desperately trying to figure him out, in these few moments as she observes him, watching the subtle shift of his arm to allow the coffee past his lips.

47 is thankful, in this moment, to have gotten as much social training as he had. He smiles politely, taking his sip of his bitter coffee before slowly lowering it. "Long few years," he returned, his voice holding a gravel to it she didn't fully expect. It's a rough voice, one not used to endearments and warmth. For some reason, it causes her heart to drop a bit.

She responds with a laugh, however, getting rid of the rest of that pesky chocolate before tucking some of her curly hair back. "I know the feeling," she admitted, straightening her posture. She rests back against the back of her seat, and he finds that she manages to look even softer. He has to laugh to himself, but thankfully it seems as if he's laughing at her words.

"Any reason why you picked LA for a vacation?" she asked suddenly, though it doesn't seem demanding. His head tips just slightly and his eyes narrow a little, but he plays it cool, leaning forward and pinning his tie with the fingertips of one of his hands. "What gives you the idea I'm vacationing?" he asks in turn. He's trying to be coy, that's how you act with women, right? His training was basic, made for blending in. He knows how to joke with another, but it's a fractional small-talk skill, at best.

At this closer distance she can spot a mark under his left eye and it tugs a small smile from her lips. "Oh, that's easy. You're not in the business district, but you're dressed with a tie and cuff links, yet no briefcase," she said, tapping her own at her feet with the side of one of her t-strap heels.

His eyes flash to her briefcase and he glances back to her for a moment in something akin to awe. He covers himself directly after with a shrug of his muscular shoulders. "Very astute. Admirable quality," he complimented, but turned it right around on her. "I'd wager you're a lawyer," he said, nodding his head to her. Her heels were sensible, her suit was tailored but it wasn't high end like his were, nor was it tailored to hide anything. A simple suit of charcoal with a purple dress shirt, something she easily could have gotten off the rack.

The woman smiled, holding her hands in the air as if unarmed. "A. C. Makem, criminal defense. But seeing as we're not in a professional setting, feel free to call me Arleen," she introduced. Her unarmed position had made some deep part of him twitch, half an itch to draw his weapon automatically, half in despair that, even playfully, she put her hands up in surrender towards him. He had seen many people make that exact posture, but something about it coming from the soft woman before him gave him an odd sick feeling.

He washes it down with a sip of his coffee, though something still remains there. "Malcolm Tatcher," he offered to her, unconsciously copying her posture. He also couldn't help himself from copying the smile that grew on her face.

"It's a pleasure, Malcolm," she returned, her nose wrinkling up again. She is clearly a very open person, very trusting. Most women would have bared their teeth and sneered in disgust to catch someone watching her, and yet she was happy to greet him for it. Perhaps she was lonely, he wondered. There was no ring on her finger, in fact there was no jewelry to speak of. However, there's something about the way she looks at him, there's nothing desperate there, nothing longing and gasping for any possible companion. No, she merely just was a genuinely friendly person.

"The pleasure is mine, I assure you," he whispered, unaware of the lowering in volume in his voice, but he just found himself taken by the way her nose wrinkled when she smiled as she did. His blue eyes locked onto her bright hazel eyes and he licked his lips to gain his courage. "I'll be here for about a week. Would you be interested in dinner, perhaps? If I may be so bold?" he asked, surprising himself with the sudden request. But her way of treating everything was so damn refreshing he almost couldn't help himself. Besides, if this were to be his vacation he wanted to take the time to actually relax.

She smiled another one of those genuine, eye crinkling smiles. As much as he was, already, growing fond of them, they made his stomach churn. It was only when she smiled in that particular way that he was able to see those scars on her milky, freckled skin.

She's unaware of his scanning. She's smiling politely, and genuinely, sure, but within her mind she is fighting a battle. She hadn't been on a date since she and her husband were still in the spring of their marriage, and that was nearly a decade ago. She hadn't been alone with a man who wasn't a client of hers, in any capacity, for 6 years. But she's trusting, foolishly so, and the loneliness within her wins out of any reservations. So she agrees with a slight nod of her head. "I'm free tonight, in fact."

He brightened a bit, his posture straightening. She's smiling again and it's so sheepish yet bright it tugs at something he thought had been completely squashed by his childhood. His smile is completely genuine as he returns it to her, his heart racing at the idea of doing something normal, something human, something that wasn't dictated he do by the Agency. "Does 6:30 suit you?" he asked with an almost shocking level of tenderness to his voice. A part of him catches himself and warns him to just kill her once he gets her alone.

He's almost dead set on the idea until she hands him her business card and he sees the fact that she has her home address written on it. This vulnerable little soft woman before him didn't stand a chance. He wondered just how she had managed to survive for so long, his pale eyes lifting from the cream colored cardstock. "You shouldn't have any trouble. My house is the only one there and it's right by the highway," she offers pleasantly, innocently.

His jaw is slackening a bit and he wants to shake her, ask her if she's trying to get herself killed. She can't be ignorant to the darkness in this world, not if she's a criminal defense lawyer. Not with those scars on her face. She knows damn good and well. And he can't figure out if she is offering misplaced trust, or if she is merely foolish.

He doesn't get much time to further dwell in her presence. Her phone is vibrating in her jacket and she quickly swigs down the rest of her cold coffee while she glances to her watch before checking what message she just received. "I'm afraid my lunch is over, Malcolm. But I look forward to 6:30," she offered, smiling a warm smile in his direction.

Without thought he returned the smile, and the slight wave. She cleans up her area with courtesy he isn't used to, and he observes her as she leaves. Her step is confident and he wonders if she isn't all innocence and naivety. Part of himself warns that he's being paranoid. The other half reminds him that paranoia has kept him alive this far.


	2. Fibs and Frustrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 47 struggles with himself, weighing the pros and cons of killing his date, as they enjoy a dinner together.

Arleen spent her day with her head in the clouds, musing over the stranger she had met. She couldn't tell if he was handsome in his own right, or if it was symptom of being lonely. She managed to get out of work a little earlier than she normally would have. She was the type to spend all day long pouring over her work, and not getting out of the firm until well after dark.

She lived beyond the city, in Malibu, on a small beachfront property where she could scream bloody murder from the roof and not be heard. She'd never had a problem, she always gave her everything for her clients, and had been lucky enough to have avoided any backlash for her kindness.

She had enough time to shower and do her best to get her hair to behave, getting herself into a little black dress and accenting it with long silver earrings and a thin necklace that fell into the exposed dip of her collarbone. The only makeup she bore was a hit of eyeliner to make her eyes stand out just a bit more than they did naturally.

No matter what she did to one of her curls it refused to tuck away, so she gave up and allowed it to frame her face as she pinned back the rest of the front of her hair with a silver clip. Most of her hair continued to keep to her shoulders, but the clip kept her hair from being a complete mess. Lucky for her it was the summer as well, as she didn't really need anything other than the dress.

47 was prompt as he always was, not that she could know yet. He had been completely absorbed by her, something he chalked up to not knowing what it was like, to actually bask in someone's company. It was so rare that he interacted with anyone he wasn't going to kill, and there was something about her that hooked him in, something that made him feel things he didn't believe he could, and he had only known this woman a very short time. Though he remained on the fence with her. He wanted to kill her for his own sake, she was too innocent, too quiet, and he feared what she may be. However, when she greeted him at her front door he could find nothing to tell him she was something to be wary of. There were no hidden weapons on her person, he would have been able to spot that in a second. It was almost aggravating that she wasn't trying to kill him yet, if that was her plot.

She was laughing softly, utterly enamored with the fact he was just in a different version of what he had been wearing earlier. "Decided the white shirt red tie ensemble worked so well you should wear it again? But, not the same one," she observes, one of those delicate hands catching the end of his tie, studying it. A warmth moved through his chest and down into his stomach at their closeness, at her touching his tie. For some reason, he was allowing it, despite his distrust. In fact, he was almost looking forward to the next time she would grab his tie as her fingers slid from the silk.

47 further finds himself frustrated at the fact her dress is considered modest, but it shows enough of her skin, which pleasantly surprises him in that it appears to be freckled all over, that he instantly wants to know the rest. He can see her collarbone, the necklace and earrings serve only to show off her pale, thin neck. Easy to kill her, to get his garrotte around her neck. And yet, the last thing he wants to do to her in this moment is kill her. He can only see just above her knee, and though the freckles are lessened they are there just the same.

"How was your day?" she asks as he is admiring the width of her hips and his icy eyes zipped up to her warm ones. "Long," he answered, his lips curling away from his teeth in amusement. She laughs a soft, sympathetic laugh. "Aww, but you're on vacation," she whispered, pouting to him. He tightens his eyes against the quiet sexual desires flinging through his mind and body at everything she does. Not knowing a woman's touch or company, everything she did seemed to send a jolt through him. He'd never had a vacation, and as he was squeaking out of his mid-30's it was time he enjoyed life before he faced 'retirement'.

Those powerful shoulders of his offer her a shrug again, and now she's biting her bottom lip. Is she blushing? She is, and he finds the way her freckles disappear into the rosy color as fascinating as he finds the freckles themselves. They're getting off track and he wants to get them on their way or they're likely to never make it.

"Are you ready then?" he asks of her, unconsciously leaning into her, just a bit. She smells like berries and vanilla and while it's difficult for him to get a lock on her actual scent he's enjoying the scent of her perfumed bodywash. She's taking in his scent as well, even as she busies herself with the locking of her front door. He smells like blood, gun metal, black powder, and a multitude of other rough scents. In the end of it all, however, he smells dangerous. And yet, she still accepts his offered arm without hesitation, allowing him to lead her to his car.

She's surprised by the amount of muscle he has under his suit, and he's trying desperately to keep her from feeling the gun at his side. He is experiencing something human and good and he doesn't want it ruined. He doesn't want to see a look of fear on her face.

She remains blissfully unaware, and settles into the passenger seat with a whisper of thanks. He isn't great at small talk, but he realizes he never asked about her day, so he returns her previous question and allows her to speak most of the drive. He doesn't find it dull, even as she is doing her best to make her day out to be. Court hearings and vague explanations regarding her current cases that she dealt with today. He is more than a little amused at her clear disbelief that any of her clients could possibly be guilty. It also dares him to hope that she wouldn't respond poorly to his work, though he isn't ready to drop that knowledge on her just yet. Why he keeps considering things as yet confuses him, but he can't help it. Which, in it's own way, is terrifying. He is used to being in complete control. There is something refreshing about it, and so he allows it.

She's dainty and polite, submissive in a way, and it scrapes at the most primal parts of himself, yet at the same time it reminds him of the scars on her face, the ones he can see so much easier as he holds the door open for her. He's annoyed at the swell of protective desire that floods him, but he never shows a tell. The restaurant is some Italian place, and 47 has to remind himself the people here wouldn't speak Italian. He's too used to Italy, too used to having to speak every different language and dialect in order to fit in seamlessly.

The food smells almost like several of the restaurants he frequented in Italy, though the patrons are decidedly not worldly, despite how much they clearly thought they were. He glanced to Arleen and realized she must not have traveled far, she seems quite taken by the mingling scents of bread, pasta, tomato, cheese, basil, and wine. He places his hand on the small of her back once the host offers to lead them to a table. 47 takes the time during their walk for him to sweep the place as he always did. No one was too close to the table they were being led to, which pleases him greatly. The restaurant was on the gaudy side, the carpet a bright red, cream walls with a lot of green, trying to create a colors of Italy feel.

Arleen finds herself taken by his unintentional charm, and she's all smiles as they settle into their seats. It's no five star place, but Arleen prefers it that way. She's very humble that way, and he admires it. Humility is something he is severely lacking in. Though he is humble enough to admit his fallback, so it's progress.

The silence between them is strong, and penetrative, but thankfully their waiter is quick in showing up with two glasses of ice water. He's thin, the type of dime-a-dozen man out here near Hollywood but he just doesn't have a distinctive enough look to him. 47 does take the time to observe the old injuries that are visible to him. A break to his arm, likely something that happened when he was a child, but 47 is able to pick up on it with ease.

He feels refreshed that Arleen doesn't simper and fuss about what to order. A seafood ravioli in a creamy tomato sauce, and 47 can't help but find something amusing about it. Despite not knowing much about her, other than what he can deduce and what little she's told, for some reason it suits her. He's bland in his tastes, he has been trained to be, so he orders a standard spaghetti without a thought.

"So, you never did answer why you picked Los Angeles to vacation in," she whispered after their waiter had left them again, her slender fingers playing with the condensation on her glass of water. She pulls her hand away when she realizes she is fiddling, tucking that stray curl back out of her face. It doesn't take long for it to return to her jaw, and he fights an amused smile at the annoyed look on her face.

"You know, I'm not sure," he admitted, smiling enough to show his teeth to her. "Glad I picked it, however," he offers, dragging his voice to a whisper just like hers, even though she seems to be perpetually whispering. He feels triumph in her flush as it covers her cheeks, but he doesn't get much time for silent gloating, their waiter bringing by bread and distracting the two of them.

She picks at her bread right away, treating it just like she had treated the croissant that afternoon. 47 tips his head as he observes her with his penetrative gaze. "Was that half eaten croissant the only thing you ate today?" he asked gently, studying her careful hands.

She glances to him, and his eyes automatically shoot up to meet hers, and she smiles gently, unperturbed by the gaze of the killer across from her. "I'm normally much better about eating," she promises, answering his question in the most round about of ways. Oddly, it doesn't anger him.

He offers her a chuckle, and he feels that unfamiliar warmth sink into his chest again as she wrinkles her nose at him. He keeps her talking about her work as best he can, and gives vague answers when she asks after his career. Their food doesn't take long to show up and he finds himself further amused when she remains just as dainty as ever, despite how hungry he knows she must be.

With food in front of them their chatting dies, but each find the others presence more than enough. Once he can see her starting to slow he asks, "Why Malibu? You seemed to find the idea of just vacationing here funny, yet you live here." He points lightly at her, his fork prongs down in his pasta, his hand curled over the handle until he's done speaking and then he returns to the proper hold to continue eating.

She perks at the question, listening to him with an interest he's never seen directed at him. She flushes and again tries to tuck away that thick curl, and again fails at it. "Well, I love the ocean. I don't think I could survive away from it. And I don't like the cold," she explained gently.

"There are other places that fit that bill, and they're better than here," he pointed out, his tone matching hers in how gentle it is, which he hates but can't manage to correct. It seems unnatural for him to speak this way, and yet the desire takes over when speaking to her.

"Yes, of course there are, but Los Angeles has a good crime rate. I do still need work," she bantered in return, her eyes crinkling. He feels so torn yet again over that expression, over the scars he can now see no matter the lighting. He wonders if it will ease with time, and then instantly berates himself. This isn't a lasting thing. In fact, he should kill her when he gets her home. Secluded, quiet, no one would hear or find her until she didn't show up for work.

He decides to give her a 'you win' expression, shrugging his shoulders and making a non-committal noise. She mirrors it back playfully and he can't help but smile for a moment. She smiles brightly, happily, as she catches his smile. He finds it so intriguing that something so simple and small brought her such instant joy.

He manages to slow his eating enough for them to end roughly around the same time, but even still she shoots him an apologetic look. He waves off her concern with a silent wave of his hand, and he's pleased to see her muscles loosen in response. "You're ready, then, Arleen?" he asked of her, savoring her name on his tongue.

She nodded, begrudgingly allowing him to pay for the meal, something she is clearly unused to. 47 makes note of it, and tells himself he'd fix that before again berating himself. He offers her his hand to help her out of her chair, and once she's on her feet he moves her hand to the crook of his elbow. She follows him with ease, as if they'd done this a thousand times.

He finds himself nervous again, worrying over her and her odd acceptance of everything. He sets his mind to it, he'll kill her when he gets her home. He'll make it quick, he doesn't want to second guess himself on this. In his line of work, in his life, he doesn't have the luxury of second guesses. Everything has to be right the first time, no questions asked.

He's so focused on how exactly he's going to kill her that he makes the fatal mistake of not paying complete attention to his surroundings. All he feels is the faintest of tugs to his arm, but it's enough to snap him out of his thoughts and as he looks to his side he locks his eyes onto man who had popped out from the mouth of an alley they were walking past. A cheaply made Glock 19 knockoff in one hand, and Arleen's forearm in the other.

His heart rate spikes for one moment, but resettles almost instantly to keep his mind clear and focused, a lesson from his childhood training that always did him well. Confusion is what hits him next as he realized Arleen never made a sound, other than to suck in a deeper breath of air. She still isn't, her mouth and airway were clear, she could be screaming her head off now, but she isn't. In fact, she doesn't even seem all that scared for the moment, though he can see her trembling at the feeling of the gun pressing against her cheek.

Something close to fury replaces the confusion. His anger is a scattered mess, anger from being so distracted this happened, anger that of all people to get some sort of jump on him it's a druggie looking for a fix, and even more he's angry at Arleen. She still isn't screaming, she isn't calling for help. In fact, she seems to be whispering to the man she is pointedly not looking at, trying to sympathize with him. She isn't even looking to 47, she isn't begging him to save her, not even silently.

This man has no idea what storm he has just brought upon himself, no clue what man he just angered. And still he's demanding money while 47 can only stand there, startled by the sheer stupidity of the man before him, and the faith Arleen seems to have in this madman with a gun. The man in question is growing confused, why isn't this well dressed man jumping to the defense of the woman who is clearly his date? He glanced to Arleen as if to find some form of confirmation and that's when 47 struck.

He knew each gun intimately, a knockoff was no different. His hand shot out to catch the man by his hand and gun, twisting his arm down painfully, already working on disassembling the pistol. The parts of the gun end up scattered before the man can finish his yelp of surprise and pain, and all he is holding is the empty, useless body of the gun.

Instantly he releases Arleen, and the gun, and attempts to slug 47 in the face with a good right cross. 47's arm shot up, blocking it with the outside of his forearm before twisting and lowering his hand, catching the man's wrist. His anger is growing higher, this is ridiculous and he, frankly, doesn't have it in him to deal with a lowlife like this.

With a firm grip on his forearm he smacked his hand over his mouth, twisting his arm and jerking it down, dislocating the shoulder with practiced ease. Even though his screech of pain is muffled, 47 doesn't want to even hear what little sound does make it past his hand. He grabs the man by the back of his neck and using his new grip on his head he drags him down to drive his hardened knee into his ribs.

The cracking of bones finally pulls a sound from Arleen, but it's nothing more than a very small gasp, her hands going up to her face for just a moment before her hands stretch out forward. "Malcolm, Malcolm, stop. You could get murder if you don't stop," she begs of him, her eyes wide. Whatever fear is in her voice isn't due to the situation, isn't caused by the faint indent of a gun in her pale cheek or the darkened hand mark around her arm, it's for him. 47 glares at her, completely confused. He's ready to kill a man in front of her with his bare hands and her only worry seems to be regarding what charge he could possibly get if found out.

One sharp kick to the knee is the last blow 47 bothers to land, dropping the man like a hot stone in the stinking alleyway. Arleen's shaking hands find 47's arm, and she clutches onto the fabric. He coos at her, unaware of himself doing it, but he tugs her away from the alley and back for his car. Still she isn't screaming, she never begged for her life, nor begged for him to save her. This woman couldn't hurt a fly. She truly is just an innocent, trusting, naive woman, and nothing more. He tucks her curl back for her as he finally gets them to his car. "You're alright, now," he promises her gently, his hands shifting to her biceps to try and settle her down.

Her petite hands find his lapels and she tucks herself against his chest, her nose pressing into his chest to one side of his tie, her breathing hard with her fright. His hands awkwardly curl and uncurl, held in the air where her biceps had once been. He slowly drags in a deeper breath, easing his hands onto her back, as if fearful the very touch would burn him. He can hear her whisper something about calling for an ambulance for the man, and 47 unintentionally scoffs lightly at her. "An ambulance? A man just held a gun in your face and you want to get him medical help?" he questioned, tucking his head down so he can almost see her face.

"He's likely in a lot of pain right now," she whispers, as if that makes it better, as if it forces it to make sense. 47 presses his lips into a tight line, smoothing his hands away from her back, catching her jaw and coaxing her away from his chest. It only works so well, her hands clutching at his well fitting white button down, one hand half tangling into his tie again. Something about her grip on his tie makes his knees weak, and he glances around to please her, though why he isn't sure.

He's in luck, however, there's a group of men walking by the alley and 47 calls to them, "Oh, my god. Is that man alright?" The young men spot him and instantly spring into action, but 47 is drawn back to Arleen against his chest. She had flinched when he raised his voice, and now she's looking positively sheepish and she's drawing away from him as if embarrassed. If he wants to get them out of here before they have to answer any questions, he needs to do it now.

She studies him, watching those powerful looking shoulders slump into a loosened position. She can tell, he isn't relaxed, he hasn't been this entire time. She gives him an innocently curious look, but it seems to only churn his stomach, as he's looking away from her now. She can almost see the tattoo of the barcode on the back of his bald head from this angle, as he gestures into the car. He turns that sharp gaze onto her once again and she feels her chest constrict. "Your mugger has been taken care of. Shall we?" he asks of her, offering her his hand.

As she slides her slender hand into his large, warm palm he brushes his thumb across her knuckles, wanting to confirm what he already knew. Regret and guilt fill him as he realizes she is likely shaking because of some type of fear of violence, or maybe it went as deep as to be something relating to post traumatic stress. The mere idea made his insides boil, and again he chided himself for getting so invested so quickly. Though, he's never felt a touch like hers. He's never been spoken to as she speaks to him, never looked at how she looks at him. It's humanizing, and he relishes in it.

He helps her into the car, she's still weak kneed and shaking, and he just wants her to calm down. He sucks in a deep breath of the salty night air as he steps around the car, rubbing at the side of his clean shaven jaw. Arleen can't help but study the way he walks, he moves with his hips, as most men do. But there's something so different about how he does it, the full, loose rotation of someone who is flexible, yet there is a tightness in other areas that Arleen can tell are injuries.

She can tell he's guilty of something. Arleen can always see that guilt, the look of someone who had taken lives or tortured someone. He had done something to someone living, that much she knew. But Arleen always stuck to her guns of innocence. He glances her way when he feels her eyes on him as he starts up the car and his brows furrow over his intense eyes at the almost sympathetic expression she's sending his way, however it's wiped away from her face before he can completely register what he saw.

His frustration grew subtly and he got them headed off, back for her secluded house, the house he won't be taking advantage of. He just can't, she's sitting there with her hands pinned between her knees and her body curled slightly as she does her best to understand what all just happened, and it hurts some part of him. He forgets that people aren't used to guns, though he knows better than to assume she isn't used to violence. He wishes he didn't.

He's so lost in his thoughts that the drive seems to go by in a flash despite taking nearly a half an hour. It's her hand on his arm that pulls him from his thoughts and he turns a bit last minute into her driveway, placing his silver Audi next to her green Jaguar. He steps around the car after tugging the keys out of the ignition, going to her side and helping her out.

As soon as she can she sucks in a deep breath of ocean air, and it all clearly calms her. The sea breeze can be felt from here they're so close to the ocean, and as 47 licks his lips all he can taste his salt. He focuses on her for a moment, and she's breathing deeply and trying to relax herself, and it appears to be working.

She's focusing on everything in the world around her. His tie flapping in inescapable wind, the waves, the sea on her lips and the light mist hitting all of her exposed skin. She's pulled out of her almost meditative like state as a car zips past going near 80, and her eyes slowly open. It was only a short while, not even half a minute, but 47 enjoyed each second of her, the wind in her hair and tugging the material of her dress. "Let's get you inside," he offers her, one large palm cupping her deltoid.

She allows him to lead her for her quaint little home, looking at the door as she finds her keys. She hadn't shared space with someone for so long since her husband, and she never realized how empty her home seemed. However, the door is open quickly, too quickly since his warm, powerful hand is on the small of her back. She turns to view him, almost eye level as she steps up slightly into her home. Between the porch and the heels, anyway.

She studies him, taking in the way his muscles are formed, his hands, the way he stands tall and proud, and she chides herself for not seeing it before. He has to be military, and she nearly rolls hers eyes at herself for not picking up on something so painfully obvious. Everything made much more sense, suddenly, and she smiled to him subtly.

"Take care, Arleen," he said, his blood red tie snapping in the wind, though he keeps in mind to pin his jacket to his sides with his arms as to not show off his illegal double holster and silverballers. Arleen smiled more in return to him. "You're still here for a week, right?" she questioned, her small hands clutching onto the jam of her door, leaning out of her home a bit.

His cold eyes meet her warm ones and he nods silently to affirm, and he watches a slow smile take over her face yet again. "Would you be... interested...," she offers pathetically, a flush bleeding across her cheeks and down into the modest cut of her dress. This finally pulls a smile from 47. "I'd love to," he promises, smiling even more as her smile grew at his answer. He had been fighting with himself between asking her out a second time and not. He had her card after all. But he found himself glad she had taken the first step.

"Lunch then? Tomorrow?" she asks, tucking that stray curl back yet again. 47 chuckles, and it's a strange, warm sound that even he isn't used to. Arleen can tell he isn't used to making it, and again she feels a pang in her chest, a desire to make him laugh more often.

"Of course. Perhaps I can get you to eat something more than a croissant," he teased softly. He's not used to teasing and joking, but he is in no way opposed to the idea of doing it more often. He can see it in her eyes that she knows he isn't used to this, and he is relieved at how she is taking him in stride.

"Goodnight, Malcolm," she whispered, her smile warm and gentle. 47 smiles again in return, he can rarely keep himself from it, it seems. "Sleep well, Arleen," he returned, bowing his head and shifting on his heels so he again faced the driveway. He glanced over his shoulder to make absolutely sure she had closed and locked her front door before he slid into the leather drivers seat, starting up his engine to drive back to the hotel room that for the first time in his life is piercingly empty.


	3. Second Dates, Second Guesses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their second date, Arleen gives 47 a better excuse for his mannerisms than he could ever hope to think up. 47 remains unsure of the criminal defense lawyer, as it seems every time he gets set to kill her, she does something to take away the desire.

Despite his being on 'vacation', he doesn't allow himself to deviate from his routines. He wakes up at the same time he always does, 5 minutes before 6, without an alarm to aid him. He always acquaints himself with his time zone by forcing himself to sleep by 10:30 no matter what. After he wakes he exercises, each day had it's own mentally programmed list, and each day was different to ensure every muscle was getting proper focus.

After the in-room exercises, he runs. Happy to have a beach at his disposal, even if it is dirty, he takes advantage of the terrain. It causes his calves to actually burn, and he relishes in the feeling of it, not often getting the chance. The sun is already well risen, even if it is just scraping past 6:30, it's the summer after all.

47 is happy to pause on the pier, looking out onto the ocean to try and figure out what had captivated Arleen so completely about it. Maybe it would help him to understand how she had wormed under his skin. He's panting through his mouth passively, not heaving for air, but he wants to ensure his lungs expand correctly. All he can taste is the musky, salty water, the dank scent of decaying kelp, and the heavy smog that hung over every inch of the city.

He shook his head to himself. Nope, he couldn't discover what was so interesting about the sea. He turned, his few minute rest over with, and ran his way back to his hotel room. From there it was a shower, cleaning the wound that got him here in the first place, and he dressed in his usual attire. He paused, however, looking down at his signature tie. He recalled her grabbing his tie, and making a joke about him wearing a different set of the same clothing.

His eyes shot from his tie to the nearby mirror. This was why he moved so often, zipping from hotel room to hotel room. No one ever got close enough to realize you had more than one set of the same outfit. If anyone noticed anything, they assumed you only had one good suit, and then you'd be gone, just another empty room with sheets tugged up out from between the mattress and the boxspring, a few towels on the floor.

He sighed to himself, tugging the tie back off and removing the knot, returning it to his suitcase. Purchasing himself a different colored tie and dress shirt wouldn't be the end of the world, he decided. And it would keep him from appearing suspicious, at least to her. Money was no object to him, he had enough to live several lifetimes. Buying some clothing to blend in wouldn't even be a drop in the bucket.

He knew his measurements by heart, he had all of his clothing tailored. But, he didn't have time for that, so he'd settle, with a sneer of disgust, for something off the rack. Thankfully, it was Los Angeles, and well made wasn't impossible to find. He was also thankful the people he had to interact with weren't half brain-dead like so many other people seemed to be in this city. He is content in his choices, even if dark dress shirts and light ties seemed, well, odd. He got more ties than he did dress shirts, she might not care to notice a dress shirt, but he was foolish in wearing a different red tie last night.

Back in his hotel room, back in front of his mirror, and he is cringing to himself at this alteration from his normal dress. However, it seemed necessary, at least if he was going to be staying in the same place for more than two days. He tipped his head once everything was in it's proper place, and decided it didn't look bad at all. The dress shirt was an almost black blue, he knew better than to double up the color black, and the tie was a lighter gray, stripes of white and black helping to break it up and blend it in with the dress shirt itself. Best of all, his guns were able to remain hidden.

He glanced to the alarm clock on his bedside table, studying the burning red numbers. Her lunch would be soon, and he wanted to be on time. He plucked his current cell phone out of his pocket, along with her business card, dialing her work number and slowly sitting down on the corner of his bed. He pressed the cheap mobile to his ear, his eyes locking onto her home address with another wave of annoyance while he listened to the dial tone.

Arleen picked up promptly, answering in her professional voice, which was quite a far cry from the whispering, gentle tone she normally used with him, though it wasn't an unpleasant tone. "A. C. Makem, criminal defense, Donovan & Gunn. How can I help you?" she greeted, studying a few pictures from a grizzly murder that she was currently working on. She had developed her iron stomach long ago, and no longer flinched over even the worst of photos.

47 smiled at her long, and well practiced, phone greeting. "You could tell me what you were interested in for lunch," he offered, and smiled wider at the faint intake of breath he could hear over the phone. "Did you forget?" he asked pleasantly, his head tipping automatically even though he knew she couldn't see him.

"Oh, oh, no. No, I didn't forget. I mean I was aware that we were having lunch together," she said, her voice turning a bit sheepish as she answered, and it was clear that she had, in some capacity, forgotten. She straightened her posture and squared her shoulders. "I suppose it slipped my mind, between my hearings today," she finally admitted, and he found himself glad to see that she was honest enough to do so.

"Do you know what you want?" he inquired. That was what you do, right? You ask for what they want? 47 was still on shaky and unsure ground with this, hopelessly lost amid the sea of dating articles and weapons manuals. His mind stored as much knowledge as he could handle, and while he currently didn't have to deal with a hit, he was still fairly full up on retained information. Remembering things from long ago finished magazines wasn't exactly his forte.

"I was hoping you would," she whispered, her jaw settling into her upturned palm, her eyes mindlessly reading the police report under one of her elbows. Her nose wrinkled to one side, her lips twisting as well.

"I picked last night," he banters, hoping to win some sort of ground with the statement. He isn't sure if it will work, but he's willing to try. The huff he hears in response tugs a broad smile to his lips. Success. He did seem to have won out, to have bested her in this instance. He would be sure to remember the trick for later, should there be a later. He tells himself there won't be.

"Something simple, then. There is a burrito place nearby. I'm buying," she said, her voice sounding final on the subject. She can hear his fumbling as he tries to figure out the best response for her, and before he can even get out half a sentence on the matter she says, "You paid last night."

His jaw drops a bit in annoyance, and yet he's amused. How good of her to turn around on him. "Alright, alright," he concedes, rising his hand to smooth over his tattoo, to remind him, but all he feels is slight stubble. It's enough for him to realize he skipped a small step on his routine. It angers him, but he manages to draw it back quickly. "Where is this burrito place?" he demands, his emotions leaking into his words.

Her brows furrow slightly at his annoyance, but she realizes he is likely only annoyed because of her turning around his winning words. "Just come to my work. The address is on the card," she points out, smiling into the phone. That way she can wait until he gets to her to clock out for lunch. Maybe they could chat about something better than their careers, even if she is alight with curiosity regarding which branch of the military he must be in. Army, she's pretty sure, but she really wants to be 100%.

He grunts an affirmative into the phone before managing to remember well enough to actually say some form of a goodbye. His hotel was in Los Angeles, and oddly not far from where she worked. Quite close to the cafe he had met her in yesterday. He was there in hardly more than 5 minutes, feeling an odd swell of awkwardness as he steps into the lobby of the firm. It's a small firm, that helps him, but it's a firm none the less.

The secretary who greets 47 is a bouncy creature, and he can't help but study the vital parts of her body, wondering how quickly he could do away with her and how long it would take for someone to notice. However, he catches a security camera out of the corner of his eye as he greets her in return, and decides against it.

"I'm here for Miss Makem," he offers, using the same smooth manners and quirks he had used on Arleen. It seems to work, though the girl cheekily corrects him with a, "Doctor Makem, and I'll go get her for you."

Hardly a minute passes before she's there, smiling to him. He can't help a small sneer from taking over his face as he realizes she's wearing a different, but similar, suit to what she had been wearing the day before. "And you got on me for wearing a similar tie?" he asks, tugging at her lapel in amusement.

She huffs at him, but allows the pulling of her suit jacket. "This is a different color," she protests. A few shades at best, even the shirt is a very similar shade to the one from yesterday. However, she's leading him for the door as they talk.

"Hardly," he teases her, holding the door for her. "Oh, and do forgive me, I was unaware you were to be called Doctor," he says, his voice mocking and sarcastic, but it's playful and light. At the affronted look that overtakes her face, and the pause in her step as she glares over her shoulder at the secretary, it's clearly some sort of in-firm joke, and she didn't want it following her out of it.

"Oh, that 'doctor' flim-flam," she hisses, her dainty hand waving dismissively as they step out into the considerably hotter air. "Don't you start up with it. It's ridiculous and childish, that's all it is," she explains, leading him down not even a block. She doesn't bother with getting in the car, it's nice exercise after sitting all day, and she can tell he can handle it.

The burrito place is small, and air conditioned, and the burritos are large, and filling. They're messy, as burritos tend to be, but it isn't anything they can't handle. She seems to know the cashier by name, in a way that suggests she comes in often to this place. 47 silently demands he be the one to carry things to the table, and she decides to just not protest.

He's able to keep his head, until she starts eating with a knife and fork, at which point he laughs that deep, warm chuckle that is quickly becoming something of a habit. The dark flush that overcomes her features only serves to further amuse him. "Sorry," he offers, his voice turning gentle to try and appease her. "You're just so dainty about everything," he said, touching at his cup of soda and sticking out his pinkie for deeper effect.

This earns him a scowl, and she huffs again at him, but tries to look all the more dainty about it, a completely obvious coy smile growing on her face. She sucks on the inside of her cheek for a moment, trying to figure out if it'll be proper but she finally decides it doesn't matter. "Are you Army or Marines?" she asked, leaning in a bit while her fork focused on spearing chicken and peppers.

"Wh-huh?" he asks, raising one brow at her. He studied her for a few moments, completely confused by what she was going on about. Finally it clicked through and he straightened his posture in his chair, laughing slightly. Perfect cover, he couldn't have thought of one better himself. "I can't tell you too much," he said right off, running his fingers down his cup to catch the condensation. He had seen her do it before, and he found enjoyment out of the new experience.

"Some type of special operations?" she asked, setting her jaw in her hands as she observed him. She's facing away from the door, but some how her eyes seem just as bright as they do outside. Her hair is down and free flowing as it had been when they first met, and there's only trace evidence of the better maintained curls that graced her hair last night.

He nods to her question, shrugging his strong shoulders to her. "Something like that. I really can't explain too much. In fact, if I told you which branch you'd figure out which spec ops I'm a part of," he pointed out before taking a bite of his food.

"One of those if you tell me you'd have to kill me?' she joked with the over-used line. She doesn't catch the full wickedness of his smile, and if she did she considered it to be him just teasing her back. In fact, if she wasn't so damn sure that he was every bit as innocent as she wanted him to be, she might have found his look positively menacing.

"Exactly like that," he hissed, The guns pressing into his sides more than reminded him that he likely should just be done with her, to get one good shot between her eyes. But there's something uplifting about a person with scars as visible as hers that still dared to hope. He's almost annoyed by how refreshing she was in so many aspects.

"It's a shame you're just vacationing," she commented, resting her jaw on her palm yet again. She's picking at her food, something she always does. She generally brings this thing back to the office with her and eats at it all day long, keeping her full and allowing her to avoid dinner.

"More like leave," he corrects. If she wanted to consider him military, he would happily play into the idea. "I'll be off again in a few days back to my, hmm, missions," he explained, trying to copy her wrinkled nose. Judging by the small laugh she let out at him, he had done an alright job. Or, perhaps, he had hopelessly failed. Either way, she had a good reaction.

"Hopefully they don't work you too hard," she offers, though her mood has dropped a bit. It was nice, she rarely gathered enough courage to speak to a stranger as she had with him, and they got along well enough.

He smiled as he caught her dropping mood. "I can try to make my way back in this direction when I get more free time," he offered her. He wants to be lying, he wants to not feel some strange pull for this woman, but he can't help it.

She smiled to him lazily, her eyes soft and her expression kind. "I'd like that. Don't push yourself, but if you're in the area I'd love to catch up for lunch or something of the sort," she returned, putting another bite of burrito filling into her mouth.

"My hours are odd," he cautioned a bit suddenly, studying her as she slowed in her chewing to give him her full attention. She inclined her head a bit to silently request he elaborate and he shrugged his shoulders in response. "I might only be around in the middle of the night," he explained, taking another large bite of his burrito.

"Oh, well, that won't bother me. I often times find myself only realizing I should go to bed when my alarm goes off in the morning. I get a lot of late night calls for people requesting a lawyer in lock up," she reassured him, most of her bite of food tucked into one cheek as she wanted to settle him on the idea without waiting to be done with the food already in her mouth.

47 licked at his teeth and fought a sigh. She was so accommodating, and he was in no way used to it. Somewhere within himself he dared to hope she would be accepting if she discovered his actual career, sometimes he was sure she had already figured him out due to the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't looking.

She studied him for a few moments as he grew silent, and she played with her fork as she considered something for a lengthy pause. "I'm career focused, and it would appear you are, too. I'd say we're right up each other's alley," she pointed out, her voice quiet.

One of his brows perked up sharply, and he relaxed his elbow onto the table, lowering his head a bit. Like before, it should have chilled her to the core to have someone like him looking at her with the intense, penetrative stare he was giving her, but she looked death right in the face without a flinch. "I'd say so," he agreed, scanning her face to make sure she wasn't hiding anything. She innocently kept her gaze locked with his, serving only to aggravate him in some way. The woman worked with criminals day in and day out, yet she didn't seem able to see him for what he really was.

"Though I wouldn't say career focused. My life and my career are one in the same," he said after his own period of consideration. He caught it that time for sure, right as he spoke he could see the wheels in her head start to turn full pace. She was figuring things out, quickly, and it was because he was being stupid enough to expose parts of himself that not even torture could get him to show.

She eventually gives up her mental search, her nose wrinkling and her shoulders drawing up in a small shrug. "Well, as much as I'd prefer advanced notice, I suppose a surprise in the middle of the night wouldn't be the worst thing in my life," she mused, considering the routine that was her every step.

47 considered the very real possibility that it might not be him surprising her in the wee hours of the morning, but he wondered if that wasn't best. That way she would be gone and out of his life, and he wouldn't be the one stuck hiding a body. At the idea, however, his pulse shot up for a moment. He didn't have room within himself to care remotely about someone other than himself and Diana, but here he was. At least he finally understood why interaction on this level was forbidden for agents.

"You make it sound like your life is boring," he said, smirking a bit to her. He didn't think her life was so boring, and what he believed could be boring was a relief to consider. His life was far from boring, and just sitting in a home with a television on, reading a book or whatever it was normal people did. She had her own routines, of course, and he was sure they were just as tedious to her as his were to him, but he couldn't help a bit of envy at the idea of her boring life.

She laughed a quiet, meek laugh, pushing her fingers through her honey colored hair. "Well, in comparison to yours, it sure seems boring," she explained, again wrinkling her freckled nose and exposing her teeth in a smile.

"You work with criminals. How could that possibly be boring?" he countered, so wrapped up in the conversation he was starting to neglect his food, which was as surprising as the company he was keeping and whatever muddle emotion was starting up for the woman sitting across from him.

"You work with guns," she returned, but instead of simply keeping to that, she made the mistake of gesturing at him. When his brows lowered and his eyes hardened in confusion her posture turned a bit submissive to try and settle him. "You dismantled that gun yesterday, there's some powder burns on your hands, and you've been carrying a double holster," she mumbled, a hint of nervousness creeping steadily into her tone.

He straightened his shoulders a little, and while he should have been angry he ended up just mildly impressed and amused. "Have you seen the holster?" he asked, wondering how she knew exactly.

She wrinkled up her nose again, her smile a bit shaky but there none the less. "Well, only a bit of it. But your suit is tailored for a double holster," she whispered, locking her eyes with his.

"How do you know what a suit tailored for guns looks like?" he questioned, unable to keep the suspicion from his voice. He's the nervous one now, trying to figure out what her angle is, looking at her like he'd be able to decipher if she were set up for him to interact with, if she were an enemy.

"You said it yourself, Malcolm. I work with criminals," she returned, the slightest bit of snark to her words. Despite how poorly he believed he would take snark, from her it's allowable. Though he has no idea why he is able to swallow her sass but anyone else would push his anger.

"Touche," he agreed begrudgingly, huffing at her. She smiled in his direction again, but after maintaining eye contact for a few moments she glanced down to the small watch on her wrist. "I suppose I should get back to work," she whispered, looking back to him.

He nodded, settling back in his seat and scratching at his jaw as he observed her. He couldn't help himself, the words just spilled from him without first passing through his normally iron tight filter. "When are you free next?"

"I could be free tonight, but I planned to make this roast that you've already taken me away from for one night," she said, wrinkling her nose at him. "Unless you'd like a home cooked meal? Might be nicer anyway," she offered, smiling enough to bunch up her crows feet.

"I haven't had anything home cooked in a long time," he mumbled, though for him a long time meant never. He glanced down to her small hands as she worked on wrapping up the remains of her burrito, and he can see the cut and burn scars that came from someone who cooked often. He felt a bit better about the idea knowing that she probably cooked most of her food. Not to mention it would be a good way for him to decide if she was truly as innocent as she seemed, or if she did mean him harm in some way.

"Well, then it's settled. I'll try to get home around 5. I can take most of my work home," she promised him, carefully tying a plastic bag around her lunch to keep it contained. As he studied her hands he remembered how they had trembled last night, and yet here she was looking so bright and happy. From her hands his eyes shifted to her arm where he knew there to be a bruise hidden by her clothing. It took her saying his fake name twice before his eyes lifted to hers once more. He found himself frustrated that she looked, again, so damn sympathetic. "You're alright?" she asked of him, her voice gentle and quiet.

"Yeah. Uh, lost in thought," he whispered, his voice automatically shifting to mimic hers, but he doesn't notice it as he attempts to cover. His instincts are kicking in now that he was brought out of his memories and he realizes he never asked how she was doing after last night. "What about you? Are you alright?" he asked without context.

She furrowed her brows, clearly looking worried about him. She touched at his knee gently under the table, and he has to fight himself to not break her fingers. He does tighten up and locks all of his focus onto her for a few moments. "Why wouldn't I be?" she asked, concern lacing through her expression.

"Last night," he prompted, cautiously touching at her fingers in return, forcing himself to allow it so as to not seem so odd.

She bit at her lip and shrugged her shoulders, though she relaxed as she felt the rough tips of his fingers brushing over her knuckles. "I've dealt with worse. I deal with criminals, remember?" she jokes. One thing 47 was completely sure of, she seemed to joke about the things that hurt. He highly doubted whatever worse she had dealt with was thanks to a client, and again he felt that odd welling of anger in his chest.

She pressed her lips into a thin line, looking at the blur of emotions zipping through his mind, and she captured his fingers for a moment with her own, lifting her hand from his knee to do so. "Malcolm, I'm fine. I promise. I have to get back to work now, but I will see you tonight. Okay?" she asked, waiting patiently for confirmation from him.

He knew her touches were completely normal, and he forced himself to squeeze her hand carefully in return. "Alright," he returned, loosening his hold on her hand so she could free herself from him. He watched as she got up and left, casting one last worried look to him before she stepped out into the bright Southern California sun, her eyes squinting up against the sudden light change, and she headed back for her firm at a quick pace.

If she wasn't dangerous, the situation itself was quickly turning dangerous. But anytime he thought too deeply about killing her to free himself from whatever it was that was happening to him, he recalled just how she was last night and it sapped his will to harm her.

He glanced to his watch and realized he had a few hours to himself, which left him in a bad spot. What does a contract killer on vacation do with himself in Southern California?


	4. Old Habits Die Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 47 spends his day snooping into her life, and tries to force the truth out of her. For once, however, twisting someone's arm and getting them to confess their secrets makes him feel sick. He says goodbye with every intention of never looking back, but will he manage to stay away?

It turns out that waiting for someone to get out of work was a whole lot worse than waiting for the proper time to strike a target. 47 found nothing of interest for him here in Los Angeles, between the men with their for show muscles trying to establish their dominance over a public beach, to the floozy women who hardly seemed aware of the world around them, he had a difficult time distracting himself.

Hardly two hours after watching her step out of the burrito shop he found himself standing on her porch, knowing he had more than enough time to sweep through her home. Entering her name into the ICA system to find out her history was a no-go, he couldn't have her name recorded. That was risky. All of this was risky.

He studied the lock on her wooden front door while he tugged on his leather gloves, humming to himself. His eyes dropped to the welcome mat he stood on and he stepped back one half step, lifting the corner of it with the toe of his well polished leather shoe, glaring down at the silver key he spotted easily there.

"Address on business card, works with criminals, keeps front door key in the most obvious spot," he rattled off to himself, as if he was keeping a tally of stupid things this woman did. He studied the exact position of the key before he snagged it. Maybe, just maybe, it was a decoy key. Maybe she was more careful than he was giving her credit for. His hope for that being true fell from him as the key easily slid into the lock and turned.

He tucked the key into his pocket as he stepped into the house, his head up and his back straight, all of his senses on high alert as he eased the door shut silently behind himself. He did a quick sweep of the room he was in, opening the entry closet to inspect for weapons. A grunt of pure frustration forced it's way out of him when he realized the closest thing to a weapon in the entire area was a small umbrella.

He did a sweep of her entire home, though it didn't take long as it was a fairly small residence. Her backdoor was unlocked, and he had to fight the urge to lock it, in addition to three completely open windows and two more windows fully unlocked and cracked a bit. He had to focus on her book collection to keep himself from getting too upset about her level of naivety. Thankfully, it was quite an impressive collection, and the packed bookshelves did capture his attention well.

47 had never read more than the information on his missions, or whatever magazines or newspapers he could get his hands on in the down time. Some names and titles were vaguely familiar, names of movies he had spotted in the theater section of various newspapers over the years, author names he had heard in the conversations others had around him.

He moved on, to her bedroom, and it was there that it finally struck him. There were no photos within the home. In fact, the only personal touch on a wall was a painting above her fireplace, but the rest of the house was very barren. The walls were all painted a muted color, all close to white, the floors within the house were all old but well taken care of, and very standard issue. White tiles in the kitchen and bathrooms, hardwood floors in some rooms, a sandy colored carpet in the rest of them. Despite how cozy and lived in the house seemed, it was in no way made personal.

He stepped into the bedroom, his eyes instantly drawn to the queen sized bed, only one side of the bed appeared to have ever been touched, the rest of the bed still perfectly made and undisturbed. The window over the bed was opened half way, and he sighed to himself at the sight. He lifted the pillow on the used side, hoping to find a weapon of sorts, but instead he found a very worn copy of Shakespeare's Macbeth. He made a face at the book and placed the pillow where it had been.

A small stack of case files and crime scene photos took up residence on the other side of the bed, and he picked one up to inspect the photos he found there. The mutilated body in the photos hardly seemed like something the petite lawyer wanted next to her, but as he skimmed faintly through the rest of the files he realized most of them had some type of grizzly damage to a person, and he smiled to himself. She must be as desensitized as he was to things like this. At least they had that in common.

It's with no small level of disgust that he realizes most of his anger and frustration has to do with an unfamiliar protective feeling towards her. He isn't sure why, exactly, and that just serves to further push his already frail patience to it's absolute limit. He knows the gentle woman who sleeps in the bed he is standing over will only continue to push that limit. Maybe he needs that.

He snoops around her bedroom, making sure to mentally map every single item to make sure nothing appeared disturbed. He holds out the hope that, somewhere, there's a weapon she could use. He slides her drawers open to glance within them, and freezes for a moment when he opens her underwear drawer. Normally this wouldn't phase him in the least, but the fact he had interacted with her more often than anyone else, the fact he had spotted the interest in her eyes, makes the discovery of her plain, cotton underwear jolt his pulse up. He shuts that particular drawer a bit harder than the rest.

His search is almost given up until he spots a shoebox tucked into a corner of her closet. All the pictures that should have been put into frames and hung up on the walls are tucked into this box, along with ticket stubs, a few hand written letters, a wedding ring, and divorce papers. He makes a note of the name of her ex-husband, half out of habit, half because the scars on her face serve only to anger him far more than any part of her unlocked home and lack of weapons ever could.

He checks the time on his silver wrist watch, licking at his teeth and deciding he had enough information for the moment. He stood and made sure every single item within the house was in it's proper place, and he left, locking the door and carefully placing the key under the mat once more. Despite his desire to lock up the house, he knows he can't and he just has to let her make that mistake.

He still has two hours to go, and he decides to get wine for the upcoming dinner. He doesn't know how to cook, but he does know the proper way to eat meals, and how to be a good guest. Blending in was one of the more important facets of his career. Fine dining was one of the very few luxuries he was allowed, so he found it easy to pick out the proper wine. It's the least he can do for a woman who is doing her best to force his hand and make him unable to pay for a meal.

He is just starting to consider which building would have the best position for watching her firm and waiting for her to be done with work for the day, when his phone buzzes against his wounded side. He doesn't even grimace at the faint burst of pain that envelopes his torso. He picks up and answers with nothing more than a grunt.

Her quiet laughter greets him in return. "I'll be done with work soon. Do you want to go ahead and make your way to my place?" she asks, showing off that far past naïve level of trust that makes him tighten his grip on his cell phone.

"Half an hour?" he questions for clarification. She merely hums at him in response. He gives her yet another grunt of confirmation and hangs up the phone. It isn't lost on him that their 'conversation' hardly consisted of actual words, speaking as if they had some deep understanding. The thought alone makes him cast his eyes skyward and groan quietly.

He doesn't bother changing, she won't have the luxury either, and he has a feeling she's going to be doing her best to get him to relax, if only for a moment. He sets himself to be as alert as possible. Despite his proof against her being a harm to him, he always must err to the side of caution. It's all that has saved him more times than he wishes to consider.

He makes it there first, but she isn't far behind him. He steps out of his Audi and tucks the bottle of wine in the crook of his elbow as he locks the car. She looks tired as she get out of her car, but it seems to lessen when she smiles to him. His lips tighten a bit in mild annoyance at just how genuine she appeared. He deals with liars and cheats constantly in his line of work, but truly genuine people are rare and it takes away all familiarity he hoped to have.

He stepped around the car to her as she waited for him, and she thanked him for the wine with a whisper and a smile that showed off her teeth, wrinkles, and scars. He realizes he should ask after her day, so as he walks along side her for her front door he smooths down his tie to keep it from flapping around in the breeze and asks, "How was work?"

Interaction is nothing short of awkward for him, and it must show in his voice as she shoots him a look that plainly says she appreciates him trying. "No different than work any other day," she responds with a shrug of her shoulders. Though the words should have been said with annoyance or exacerbation, she says them with something of a fondness. Despite what her tone says, her eyes say something different and he finds it nothing short of interesting that the look in her eyes is the same one he sees when he stares at himself in the mirror after a shower.

She opens the front door and gestures for him to go ahead first, while returning the question to him. He's so busy being caught up in doing a visual sweep of the home he knows to be horribly unguarded that he answers with the word, "Long." He doesn't realize his slip until she hums a disappointed sound at him.

He glances back to her, sliding out of her suit jacket and hanging it up in the entry way. "You're not very good at this whole vacation thing, are you?" she questioned of him. She realized that 'long' simply seemed to be his response to how any given day was.

"What do you mean?" he asked, tipping his head at her, watching the dainty way she got her heels off, putting them right next to her briefcase. She walked past him while she rolled up the sleeves of her dress shirt, glancing over her shoulder at him and giving him a very unintentional come hither type look. Regardless of the intent, it caused a warmth to hit his chest, and he remembered exactly what about her had captured his attention in the first place.

"Last night you said your day was long," she explained once he had followed her to the mouth of the kitchen, his eyes inspecting her suit. She always seemed to wear three piece suits, and he found himself considering taking a page from her book.

"Maybe all of my days are long," he retorted, setting the wine bottle on the counter and resting his hips against it, his strong arms folding across his chest, his icy blue eyes keeping a lock on her.

"Maybe you need to get more fun out of life," she returned with a firm look of her own, though where his was a cold, unemotional stare, hers had warmth and good intentions. She smiled at the stoney look that graced his features, her nose wrinkling up as she got to work setting up dinner.

She clearly made this dish often, as she performed the task of preparing it with absolute ease, just as mechanical as he likely looked when cleaning his guns. He found it funny that someone could look like that setting up a meal, and yet at the same time he was fairly enthralled by the process. It was something he had never gotten to watch.

Arleen pushed her hair back out of her face with one hand as her other closed the oven door. "Well, that will take a few hours," she told him, her eyes locking onto his face. "You can take off your coat and get comfortable," she offered gently, moving to the sink to wash her hands again. "I promise I won't stare at your guns," she whispered, locking her eyes onto him with a sidelong glance.

He tightened up his shoulders, having almost forgotten that she had mentioned knowing about the holster he wore. She wrinkled up her nose at his response, rubbing her hands with a dishtowel to dry them, her slender shoulders lifting up in a warm shrug. "If you're more comfortable with the suit jacket on, by all means," she suggested, and instantly switched the topic to if he wanted something to drink.

47 had assumed that the next four hours would pass by slow, but talking to her, or rather listening to her as he did very little speaking, made the time move along at a decent pace. He figured out the right questions to ask, knowing just what to say to get her to speak at length about this or that. The fire she got in her eyes when he questioned her about second chances served only to fuel his interest.

If she was so damn adamant about giving murderers and rapists and drug dealers chance after chance after chance, maybe he had some type of hope. Why he cared for the acceptance he wasn't sure. He was the best of the best, the elite, most sought after contract killer. His acceptance came in the form of his well filled bank accounts and how desired he was as a hitman. He didn't need the acceptance of some criminal defense attorney in a shit hole like Los Angeles. And yet he wanted it.

Just over three hours later found him standing next to her as she opened up the roast pan, his head tipping at the meal. She glanced to him and chuckled softly at the expression on his face. "It's not the most presentable of things, but it's hearty," she promised, letting it sit for a moment as she opened the wine he had brought.

47 studied the way she way she went about opening the wine, her hands well practiced at the motion. He had been through every inch of her home, and had only seen a few wine bottles tucked into her pantry, all but one of them cooking wines, and not a drop of alcohol in the house besides. Instantly he knew where he had seen the same ease, and that was the waiters at the restaurants he slunk into for targets, or to indulge in his few given luxuries.

She noticed his staring as she got the cork free. "What?" she asked, a faint laugh to her words as she poured the wine, her eyes not leaving him though she didn't overflow the wine in the least. She sat down the wine, tipping her head and causing some of her hair to fall from behind her ear, studying him.

"You were a waitress?" he stated more than asked, but he caught his near slip up and corrected the influx of his words at the last second. He catches the look that overtakes her face, one of amusement, but she nods and gets back to work on pouring wine, allowing him his slip up without laughing or poking him for it.

"All through college," she responds, moving the now full glasses to the table before getting to work on shifting the roast into bowls. "I also interned at a nearby firm. It was great practice for no sleep. I thought things like that would have gotten easier after passing the bar, but you get so many cases you end up with no time to rest," she continued, her voice soft as if recalling some fond memory.

To 47, sleep is important, as important as his missions. For her to be interacting with him means she isn't doing her work, nor sleeping. Neither seems like it should be ignored. "Either it got better, or you're ignoring your job," he further observed, his voice holding a bit of a dark tone. Ignoring work didn't sit well for him, though he was fairly sure she wouldn't awaken in a blank hospital room for not studying every fact in a case, it still didn't bode well for him.

She shrugged her shoulders in response, and held out his now filled bowl for him. "I'm ignoring work, but it's alright. Actual human interaction trumps reading the same case file 15 times and hoping there is something to work with. Besides, I've got a coffee maker," she said, patting the nearby large pot with a hand after he, automatically, took the offered dish.

She got them both to the table, biting back another suggestion that he get out of that suit jacket. She still had hers off, and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She knew his suit was far nicer than hers, and though she could tell how poised he was she didn't want him to stain that pure white dress shirt. Of course, she was utterly ignorant to just how many shirts 47 went through in a year, and for far worse stains than a bit of juice from her roast.

47 wonders idly if he can trick her into discussing her ex-husband, though he can only assume as he listens to her dance around a few years of her life that she tries to just pretend it never happened. She's open about most other aspects, her parents, her two brothers one older one younger, her high school days, and recent times. But it seemed almost as if the moment she hit college, until she moved down to Malibu, was completely off limits.

Sure, she would mention those basics of college, small anecdotes where maybe first names were mentioned, but beyond that no matter how he asked a question he couldn't get her to break on the subject. Of course, he didn't need her to talk about it. 47 knew how to catalog injuries, he could read most of her life from that period of time just by the writing on her skin.

Arleen remains perfectly oblivious to the inner workings of his mind, though she can tell he is really intent as he studies her. She wonders if he is truly listening, and she starts to recite Macbeth instead of actually discussing the subject she had been.

She only managed to get out two words before 47's eyes locked onto hers and sharpened in confusion, and alertness. It seemed so sudden, so odd, and he wondered if something had happened to her. A stroke, or maybe it was a code word of sorts. His head ducked down and he glanced around the small dining room to look for potential danger.

So focused was he that he nearly broke her wrist when she laid her hand upon his to try and settle him down, but as he snapped his focus back onto her he found her leaning in with a concerned expression. "What's the matter, Malcolm?" she asked, her voice colored with her worry for him.

"You spoke oddly," he informed her, his distrust still obvious in his eyes, and he studied her as if trying to find the best way to kill her. His confusion mounted as she laughed quietly, her nose wrinkling up in a way that made his chest tighten. He hated how much he loved it.

"It seemed like you weren't listening. I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice just as genuine as ever, which again served only to frustrate him. 47 was a man who received few apologies and gave out even less. To get such a heartfelt one over something so petty, so small, was almost as off putting as her suddenly reciting a book mid-sentence.

He gave himself a few moments to resettle, to lower his proverbial hackles, and he cleared his throat as he straightened his posture. "What were you reciting?" he asked, able to tell from just a few words when someone is speaking from memory. He needed this skill for torturing information out of others, to know when their confessions were trained responses or truthful admission.

"Macbeth," she answered, but at the intrigued expression on his face she further offered, "It's a play by Shakespeare."

"Why did you recite that?" he asked, wondering if he could corner her this way. He hates that he can't get the information he wants out of her. There is no reason to desire it, no true need as far as he was concerned. Maybe it's because he is never unable to get the information he wants, but he already knows, so why does it matter to him at all? He ignores the small, beaten down part of himself that says he wants to be so close to another that they can share a secret between each other.

Arleen shrugged her petite, freckled shoulders, though those freckles were invisible 47 already had a mental map of them. "It's my favorite representative of the written word," she whispered in answer, studying him with her bright, warm hazel eyes.

"Any particular reason?" he asked, his muscles tightening up. He may have her yet, and he is unconsciously waiting for the right moment to strike, to catch her at her most vulnerable.

Again, she shrugs. "Got me through some rough times in my life," she explained softly, and he can almost hear the approaching defeat.

He puts on his best perplexed expression, and asks her the silent question he can instantly tell she can't ignore. She bites her bottom lip as she studies his face, her eyes tightening in consideration, showing off the scars that dotted her freckled skin. He spots the surrender in her eyes before she can tug her eyes from him, before her posture slumps as she gives in.

"Well," she whispered, pausing to sip at her wine for courage, and for a moment to gather her words. "I was once married," she explained, glancing back to him in a fairly submissive manner. The look on his face made clear he wanted elaboration. "We weren't as compatible as we originally believed we were," she whispered, a bit of a cringe cutting into her features.

It was in that moment that 47 fully understood what trust was. He had been ready to strike, to ask questions and drag every drop of information out of her, and she had trusted him to not, to bite his tongue, read her posture, and to allow the subject to slide past them. He considered for a moment before mimicking a gesture she had made earlier, settling his warm hand over one of hers.

Her muscles, which he hadn't fully realized just how tightened up they were, loosened with his offered comfort. She turned her hand over under his palm, curling her thin fingers around his wrist in silent thanks. The gesture caused him to tighten subtly, but the look on her face, the gratitude and the rawness, was enough to relax him again.

The silence that settled between them was one of a strange comfort. 47 was well used to silence, but often when he was alone, or maybe with a corpse. Generally when in the presence of another person it was anything but quiet. They would be screaming from pain, fear, or anger. He even allowed himself a moment after finishing his plate to let his eyes shut, soaking in the comfort of her presence. It was motherly, peaceful, kindly, almost automatically loving. It was strange, completely, but in the very best of ways.

She cleared the table, and he studied her from his position as she washed the dishes, finding it fascinating in some way he couldn't hope to explain. She had just touched the back of her chair when he finally spoke again. "I'll be leaving again soon," he informed her, and he realized how heartless his tone had been as a look overtook her features.

She almost looked as if she had been struck, and she dropped into the chair without quite as much grace as she could have held. "When?" she asked softly, already schooling her expression, her tone, her posture.

"Day after tomorrow. Early in the morning," he informed her, trying to soften his tone for her, wanting to smooth away the startled pain he had seen flash across her face. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he offered, lying completely. He couldn't be back to see her again, and finding the time to do so would be next to impossible. And, though he would never admit it, he feared that his returning to her would get her the attention of men far worse than her husband.

She nodded her head, biting down on her bottom lip again, dropping her gaze down and away. He clenched his jaw, his teeth pressing together. Often times, he lived for that moment of breaking a person in some way, savoring the slumped posture and the pain in their eyes. He burned each person at that moment into his mind, and despite himself he did the same with her. He knew it would be what he saw when he laid his head down to sleep that night.

There was nothing to savor in further breaking an already beaten down woman, the only crimes she committed being loneliness, naivety, and a penchant for forgiving and accepting the worst of people, him included.

The silence had twisted into something so far from comfort that 47 almost felt right at home in the sullen tension.

Their wine glasses emptied quickly despite their passive attempts and lengthening their time together. There was no fighting the unspoken agreement that after their wine was gone, he too would be. She followed him to the front door, dwarfed by his height without her heels, and as he turned back to her after stepping down out of her front door she reached out tentatively to grab his tie.

"Be careful, Malcolm," she pleaded to him, her fingers draws along the blood red silk as she released him. He tipped his head, fighting the slight swell of arousal at her grabbing his tie, surprised by her yet again. She so genuinely wished for him to be safe, and he was so unused to it, that together it served only to intensify the attraction he knew he would never give in to. Though he knew she had no idea just how dangerous his work truly was, he could make believe that she did, if only for a moment.

Playing pretend was fun, but 47 knew it was time to end it. He touched at her chin against his mental planning, drawing his thumb across her bottom lip. The heat in his stomach made him weak in the knees as he saw that same heat in her eyes and watched her lips part subtly, as if to grant him access.

"I will," he promised, and hated himself for the sheer amount of him that, genuinely, was promising her to take care of himself on his next missions. Even if he had no intention of ever seeing her again, he felt such a strong need to.

It was such a fleeting moment before his hand was gone, and Arleen watched him as he stepped away, his confident, purposeful stride taking him back to his Audi within moments. Arleen couldn't help watching the car disappear around the curve of the highway, heading back for Los Angeles, feeling just as weak kneed as he had, her throat dry and her breath hard to catch.

She whispered one final goodbye, though he had never given her a chance to do so when he had been right in front of her, into the coastal wind before shutting and locking her door. She wondered if she would get to see him one last time before he would be off into another dangerous situation, or if she would have to wait until he returned, fully trusting him to come back some day.


	5. New Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months later and 47 is completely fed up with these feelings and memories, so he decides to end his little problem.

Six months. It had been over six months since 47 had given Arleen a silent goodbye. Six months of the thought of her drifting into his mind at the worst possible moments. Six months of him hoping it would all go away and he would be able to move on with his damn life.

He couldn't even say he was fond of her. Maybe there was a fondness, but it was more over the fact someone could interact with him as she had without fear, without judgment. Sure, she didn't have the whole story, but 47 felt she knew enough for it to be safe, and yet for her to see some real side of him caused a nervousness to churn in his stomach. She hadn't flinched or shied from him. The only fear she had shown had been for him, not of him. Yet, he remained hesitant to expose the truth of him to her.

Even Diana was fearful of 47 at times. As well she should, knowing how good he was at what he did and how vicious he would become if ever betrayed. It wasn't easy having the only constant of most of his life holding fear, but a part of him preferred it that way.

The trouble here was 47 wasn't sure what was training and what was instinct with this woman. Half of the time he wanted to spend as much time as he could spare around her. The rest of the time he wanted to shoot a bullet into her head to spare him the annoyance.

Maybe annoyance was the wrong word, but 47 didn't know what to call it. He was certainly annoyed by her coming to the forefront of his mind as he was torturing a hit for information. He was annoyed by the phantom scent of her he would catch randomly, by her voice sneaking to his ear as he laid down to sleep, or the concerned look he could envision whenever he was injured, as if she was worried for him then, and not for his 'long' days during his vacation.

The worst of all of it was the look that had scarred into his mind, when he had ruthlessly cornered her knowing full well that it was a painful subject. Instead of acting different for her he had done what he always had; broke her down for information. Judging by her response to it, and how easily she had caved to his rather subtle pressure, it was a similar tactic that her ex-husband had used on her.

Some how that made him feel worse, which only served to further annoy him. Damn this woman was aggravating and he hadn't interacted with her at all for half a year. He was leaning more towards the idea of killing her once again. Maybe that would stop all of this, these things 47 was never trained for.

He was wary as he considered the idea of killing her. He had been set on it several times previously, and had backed down each and every time because of something she had done unintentionally. He half worried it would happen again, but the other half hoped she could convince him, in her own unique way, to spare her yet again.

Regardless of what his final decision would be, he decided he would make a stop in Los Angeles before his next hit. He had some spare time anyway, and resting in Europe was so boring for him by this point in his career. Going to a bustling, busy hub like Southern California was his idea of a vacation.

Not even a day later he had landed in LAX and had a hotel room so he could wait for the proper time to strike. He could tell she had been awake for a few days as soon as he spotted her, though from what she had said that wasn't unusual. Thankfully for him it meant she would likely be sleeping that night, and his mind was already a blur as he watched her through the scope of his sniper rifle.

He took apart the rifle and put it away with jagged motions that were completely unnecessary, anger welling within his chest. He had missed her, and he was disgusted with himself for allowing his emotions so much control.

He held the handle of his rifle case tightly, so tight he knew his knuckles were bone white under his black leather gloves. His teeth squeaked against one another as his jaw clenched, his brows drawing low over his sharp blue eyes.

He didn't need this, couldn't handle this. Just as he couldn't handle how tired and lonely she looked. Just like she had in the cafe. Though, this time, it's some how worse. He had given her a taste of companionship that she hadn't had before. She'd been married, but his presence was something so entirely different. That knowledge was what scraped at him, what tugged at the heart he liked to pretend wasn't there. At least, not like this.

So he waited, sitting on the shoulder of the highway she lived near, keeping an eye on her house and waiting for her to go to sleep. Her exhaustion must have gotten to her as she was asleep just after nine, the house dark and quiet. He was content to wait an extra hour before he made his way down to her home.

The silver key was still under her welcome mat, and he got into her home without a moment of fuss or difficulty. He made his way to her bedroom, walking in his naturally silent manner, eyes narrowed and hardened as he followed the path he already had memorized, coming to a stop not far from her bed.

Arleen was curled up on her side, one hand tucked against her sternum, the other clutching at the sheets beneath her. Her head was off the pillow, she had clearly curled down into the sheets and the pillow hadn't followed. Her hair was flared out across her pillow, messy waves of honey tangling together against the flannel of her sheets.

He studied her for a moment, forcing the stern look to remain on his face, as seeing her, smelling her, had brought a comforting warmth to his chest. He slid his Silverballer out of his holster, clicking the safety off and cocking the hammer back in the same smooth motion and held it out.

He gave himself a space of 5 inches between her forehead and the end of his gun barrel, settling his index finger on the trigger and easing a breath out, but as he watched her sleeping there peacefully, unaware of his threatening presence not even a foot from her, his breath hitched.

She looked so innocent, so lonely, and she had accepted him so completely. So much of the bed was empty, making her loneliness seem all the worse. And Agent 47, the only contract killer from the ICA with some semblance of emotion, felt his chest constrict. Normally, this emotion made him stronger. He fought harder to survive, worked at his hits to make sure he did everything correctly out of pride, his emotion helped him to predict what his victims would do.

But here? Here he just felt weakened by the easily killed woman before him. She wasn't overly beautiful, though to him he was starting to find every bit of her to be the most beautiful things he'd ever seen, though he had never been a man to stop and smell the roses before.

With a sigh he dropped his hand, pointing his gun to the floor and easing the hammer back into place, clicking the safety on and replacing the pistol into it's proper place in his holster. He studied her for a few more moments, his jaw tightened, anger within him that he couldn't forget, couldn't kill her, and he knew he couldn't just drag her along with him from hotel room to hotel room. She'd find out his real job in a heartbeat.

He pulled off one of his gloves and extended his hand a bit, but froze after nearly reaching her, curling his fingers against his palm before pushing through the motion. His fingertips brushed across her temple with the most feather light of touches, pushing some of her hair back. He was unaware he could be so delicate, but he chalked it up to his training with explosives, which require a ginger touch.

She didn't even stir, further promoting his increasing desire to protect her. She almost made him nervous. He had been standing over her for several minutes and she was still dead asleep. He took a moment to ease her pillow under her head, as her neck appeared to be at a very painful angle, and frowned deeper as all she did was nestle into the pillow. 47 had been forced to lift her head to get the pillow under it, and all she had done in response was the smallest of shifting.

Her low level of awareness was maddening to the hitman, and truth be told he pulled his glove back on with a bit more force than he needed to and did an about face to make his way back out of her home. One final deep breath of her scent and he was already stalking down the hallway, silent as death and just as dangerous.

He locked her front door after himself, and replaced the key under her welcome mat despite how much it annoyed him. Worry was starting to replace some of that annoyance, but his frustration at himself for growing attached to someone, particularly a lawyer of all things, helped to balance everything out.

He settled in his car and glanced to the clock nestled in the front of his dash. Some of his tension released as he realized just how early in the evening it was, and thus he could sleep a full night and then spend some time with her before he had to head off for his next hit.

Despite living next to a highway for years, the sound of a car zipping past with someone really pushing down hard on the gas tugged Arleen out of her sleep. She squinted up at her window, feeling a chill too strong for her liking seeping through the screen. She shifted on the bed, sucking in a deep breath to get the last of the fresh sea breeze as she slid the window shut.

She furrowed her brows, trying to glance around her room, and sniffed again. She could swear she could smell that dangerous blood and black powder scent she remembered so vividly from Malcolm. She huffed at herself when her house was silent and still, nestling back down into her bed, only giving a half thought to how odd it was that her pillow had been tugged down to where her head had been.

She was too much of an innocent believer to have fully discounted that he would ever return, hope a close friend of hers. Besides, the scent brought back memories and helped to refuel her belief that she would see him again at some point. She fell back to sleep quickly and with a hint of a smile on her face.


	6. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took years for the ICA to bury the more human emotions that 47 felt. It hardly takes Arleen half a year to begin the excavation process.

5:55AM, just like it always was when he woke up in a new place, burned in painfully bright red letters near his head. He ran his rough hands over his face, further waking himself up as he used his senses other than sight to make sure the world around his was still secure.

Other people were awake in the hotel, a man with what must be an old ankle injury walking above him, a couple some adjoining room having a round of morning sex. 47 is content to get his eyes adjusted to the dim light as he listens, focusing on it if only because it's the most interesting sound in the sea of showers, TVs, and stumbling patrons. 

He cracked his neck, a quick jerk with his thumb anchored against his chin, the muscles of his back loosening thanks to the relief. He rolled his shoulders to loosen them further and then eased himself onto the floor next to his bed. He had a morning routine and despite the fact he was breaking a decent portion of his rules to see Arleen, he wouldn't break the habits that kept him alive, well, and on the top of his game.

After a hundred reps of his daily set of exercises each he got himself up for his run, the couple ending their session shortly before he was out the door. The annoyance kept with him as he slowly increased his pace from a light jog to a good running pace. Even but steady, not a sprint but he could have overtaken a fleeing target, and yet could maintain the pace for a very long time, ensuring that if speed didn't help him catch his prey, his endurance would.

He paused where he had all those months ago, sucking in the dank sea air that he knew Arleen treasured yet he couldn't understand for the life of him. Yep. It was no clearer to him this time as it had been before. He wished he could understand what it was about it, but she did so many things that he could not wrap his mind around.

He snorted out the scent of salt and decay in a sharp huff of annoyance. It was one thing to learn such behaviors and mannerisms about a target, to shove himself into their place to understand what made them tick as well as he could, to make them more vulnerable to him, but to do it for pleasure was a foreign animal that 47 had no clue of how to tame.

Being in the same spaces as the last time he had seen Arleen caused a flurry of memories, including the new ones he had made last night as he was finally able to hold a gun to her face. Maybe it was the lack of that particular step that had kept him so on the fence with her. He had seen a gun in her face, just not one held by him. Thankfully she had been asleep, as he wasn't sure he could handle a second memory of her doe-like stare of fear. Knowing it would be paired with a deep betrayal helped to further stay his hand.

He didn't even realize he was already a few paces away from his hotel again, and he bared his teeth in annoyance as he came to a halt, air pulling past his teeth with each breath. He remembered the last time he had fought so hard against something, and he had been under double digits at the time. Forced to fight his brothers, but feeling too much towards them despite how they felt nothing for him. 

Giving in had been easier. It meant less pain, less torture and training and tests. Would the same hold true for some lawyer he really shouldn't be thinking of at all? He couldn't see any other option. He couldn't kill her, he couldn't forget her warm smiles and tender voice. Giving in might be the only thing left to do.

He ran the shower hotter than normal and he made sure to shave, still angry at himself for forgetting before. It was one of the very few mistakes he had made that didn't leave him a constant reminder. He didn't intend on making it again, even if he wasn't wounded for his stupidity.

He sifted to the very back of his garment bag and found the hanger with a different colored shirt and tie, pressing his lips into a thin line as he held the still slightly stiff fabric between his fingers. He could still remember the way her nose wrinkled up as she caught his tie between her fingers, making a joke regarding his picking the same outfit he had worn before. That same warmth pooled in his chest and cascaded to his stomach, making his hands tighten.

His throat suddenly felt dry. He glanced to the clock on his bedside table and perhaps moved a bit faster than he normally did. The closer he got to being able to see her, the more frantic his thoughts became. Despite it all he got dressed just as well as he always did, his tie knotted perfectly, clothing pressed and straight. 

He shot his cuffs as he glanced at himself in the mirror on the bathroom door, licking at his teeth. He scrubbed his tattoo with the palm of his hand before he made his way out, into the tepid air of winter time in Los Angeles. 

He was almost to her firm when he froze dead in his tracks. Often, there was some form of present for a situation like this. Would she find it odd if he didn't? Surely a military man would know better than to come home from a 6 month disappearance empty handed, right?

He scrambled through his mind, blue prints of high security areas, gun safety, volatile chemical compounds, and a series of proper survival techniques zipped through his thoughts as he desperately tried to pull up the information he'd seen in magazines, television programs, anything. 

Roses popped into his mind, and that seemed the easiest course of action. Finding what he needed was never a problem for a man with funds such as his and a penchant for locating information, goods, services, and people. He decided on a single rose. More than that seemed like too many. 47 was a simple man, and he knew Arleen was just as simple of a woman. 

He couldn't keep waiting once he found himself back near her firm, his bare thumbs brushing along the stem of the rose to be sure of any thorns that remained, wanting to catch them himself and not risk her bleeding or being hurt. He made a face at himself for his thought process, but instantly reprimanded himself. He had to accept it, go along with what was happening. It was the only way he could be free.

He gave up waiting for her lunch break within minutes, smoozing the clearly new secretary to point him in the proper direction of Arleen. When he was trying to get information out of someone he could easily flirt, and yet with Arleen just speaking had him confused and agitated. As the younger woman gestured to Arleen's office 47 couldn't help the burst of anger in his chest. What if he meant Arleen harm? She had an office, he could easily kill her and slip out of there fast enough, be long gone before anyone noticed.

He did his best to shake off the feeling as he made his way to Arleen's office, though he did pause when he heard her talking on the phone. His eyes narrowed as he listened for a few moments automatically, trying to deduce who she could be speaking to before he mentally gave himself a scolding. She wasn't a target. He really had to remember that.

He gave the door a bit of pressure with just the tips of his fingers to ease it open, resting his shoulder on the door frame. Men did gestures like this for women, he was sure of it. He'd seen it in the movies they had on the hotel television at times. 

Arleen glanced up, her readying expression one of annoyance but when she realized who it was she nearly dropped the phone. “Sean, I'll have to call you back. Love you. Bye,” she whispered hurriedly into the phone. The man on the other end of the line seemed endlessly confused by whatever was happening, and was still trying to speak to her as she hung up.

47 was so confused by her speaking to someone named Sean, telling whoever he was that she loved him, that he had hardly noticed her getting up. There hadn't been any sign of someone else in her home. He didn't get too much time to dwell because she was up and around her desk in seconds, her arms going around him without any form of warning.

One hand had slipped under his suit jacket to clutch at his dress shirt over one of his shoulders, elbow just barely brushing the top of his gun. Her other shifted up, cupping the back of his neck, her fingers just barely brushing the bar code he was marked with.

He responded instantly, one hand cupping her ribs, the other snagging a syringe of sedative, his right foot shifting to knock her off balance as his left further grounded him. The plan was the same for any attacker; stick her, and leave her. She stopped his aggressive and instinctive thought process as she breathed out his alias against his throat.

He gave a faint shudder at the feeling of her breath curling against his skin, but he slowly forced the sedative back into his pocket, putting that hand on the other side of her ribs, marveling for just one moment at how easily he could crush her ribcage. She was so small against his large, work roughened hands, his fingers flared out nearly across her entire side.

“Arleen,” he whispered in return, cringing at the uncomfortable closeness. His muscles are tight and his head is lowered. He's in a very defensive stance, and easing her away a bit due to his hold of her middle. 

Arleen believes him to be hurt and releases him as if she were burnt by their contact. “Oh, god, Malcolm, are you alright?” she asked quietly, her hands tucking into her sternum. As if she could remotely hurt him. He laughed at how deeply concerned and guilt ridden she looked in that moment, her hair a wild mess and her eyes widened. Her? Hurt him? He'd find it funny for a length of time he was sure.

He took the moment of his laughter, something he realized he had sorely missed, to figure out the best way to answer her question. Not a burn, not a bullet or a knife. Those left marks, marks that would still be there if a hug could get him to cringe.

Dislocated shoulder would do. His arm lifts to touch his left shoulder, forcing himself to act extra careful with it. “Just my shoulder,” he explained, hoping that would end it. The rose is still held in one hand, tucked between two of his fingers as he waits for her overflowing concern to be settled and tended to.

Arleen never seemed to follow what he planned, however, and her tender, loving hands settled on his forearm and bicep. She'd gone rather pale, those freckles he missed so much showing up all the more. 47 took advantage of their closeness to reaffirm that he had, in fact, managed to map each and every one of them in his mind. At least, the ones he had seen. He shook that thought from his head, though he had lingered for a second or two longer than he would have liked.

“Wha- What happened?” she asked, tucking just a bit closer to him yet again, her warm, trusting gaze locking with his icy blue stare. Her touch is so feather light he can hardly feel it, and yet she is starting to curl her fingers into the fabric of his sleeve. She always seems to do that when she's scared. Was she scared? Scared for him? But he was here, in front of her, in one piece. 

He sighed to himself as he realized that for normal people, being in one piece just wasn't good enough to keep away their worry. He lifted his hand underneath hers to shift them off his sleeve, and eased the rose into her clutching fingers. “Shoulder got dislocated by a bad rappel. The rest is classified,” he reported, his voice a bit terse. He didn't like admitting injuries when they were real. Admitting to some fake injury put him into a very sour mood. Injuries meant failure, and 47 gave perfection.

Granted, he didn't mean for his voice to sound to rough, but she was touching him too much. He didn't know how to handle it other than to grow defense and try as he might he couldn't stop everything. His energy was sapped as she shrank at the tone he held. It's minute, hard to spot for even him, but he had caught it and it renewed his anger at her ex-husband and anyone else who dared hurt her in some way.

He sighed and forced his arms around her, tugging her against his chest and pressing his lips into her hairline for a moment, counting down the seconds as if waiting for a bomb to go off. Her petite hands settled over his ribs, and he further found amusement in how small she was compared to him. “I promise there's nothing to worry about,” he whispered to her, tightening his hold just a bit more for a moment. For him there wasn't. Either he died, or he lived and tended to his injuries. Nothing to fret over, in his opinion.

She sighed to herself at him after a moment and eased away from him, relishing as much as she could from the closeness without making him uncomfortable. She might not be able to read others like he could, but she knew people well enough to know when they were lying, and a huge part of that was discomfort, which was covering every inch of him.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and though she did lift the rose ever so slightly, it was clear that her gratitude was over more than just that. She was grateful that he told her about an injury without either of them making a big deal out of the situation. 

“It's almost my lunch break, but I assume it's no coincidence that you showed up shortly before then, anyway?” she asked, carefully tucking her rose away where it would be safe, but looked up to him right after, her eyes tensing as they often did, one of the smiles he just now realized she only directed at him gracing her features. “You know, roses don't seem your style,” she commented as she tugged on her suit jacket.

He'd been nodding to her lunch break inquiry when she had spoken again and he allowed another one of those deep, warm chuckles to escape him, relishing in the feeling of it for a moment before he spoke. “Oh? And what is my style?” he questioned, tucking his hands into his pockets as he walked along with her out of her firm.

“I don't know, but not roses,” she said making a face by wrinkling up one side of her nose, squinting one eye, and sticking her tongue out as her lips curled from her teeth. She didn't keep the expression long before she laughed softly and took his uninjured arm, causing him to tighten for a few steps before he relaxed into it again.

“Doesn't seem like roses are your 'style' either,” he commented offhandedly, tempering his speed for her. He didn't need to, he knew she could keep up with him if he set a faster pace without issue, even in those five inch heels. But he wanted to enjoy his time with her, not rushing around and more focused on the clock than on her. She was to be his focus for his short visit, and he would keep it that way.

Arleen hummed and rested her cheek against his deltoid for a few moments. This time, less muscles tightened, and those that did relaxed quicker than before. “I suppose not,” she admitted, her lips turning into a pout for a few paces before she straightened again, pulling from his upper arm. “You know, I don't know what my style is. Books, I guess. Or just things that make others think of me,” she whispered, looking up at him.

“How do you know the rose didn't make me think of you?” he countered, though within his mind he was increasing the information in her profile. Likely all flowers were out, judging by what he knew about her, little as it was. It was a huge disability for him to not be able to simply look her up, find out everything that makes her tick. How did people do this day in and day out?

The look she sent his way was one of playful annoyance, and it caused 47 to grin down at her. She didn't even bother responding to his question other than with a roll of her eyes. She took advantage of the small space of quiet to change the subject. “So, how long are you here this time?” she asked, looking to him again.

“Not long. A few days,” he answered, his voice much like how he would report to Diana, but at the look of disappointment that moved across her face he tried his best to sound sympathetic. “I'm sorry. Dinner tonight. Perhaps but lunch and dinner tomorrow. Day after I'm due back to work,” he informed her, frowning a bit for her. He hated how a bit of that frown was genuine.

“But you're injured,” she countered, her brows furrowing down a bit. She gave his arm a gentle tug to move him into a nearby cafe. His heart sunk at her words, how genuinely concerned she sounded. He patted her hand on his arm, and she in turn gave his bicep a gentle squeeze.

“Injuries come with the territory,” he explained, voice short as it often was, shifting his arm away from her to get to his wallet. She gave him a soured look, almost pouting, and again he laughed. “Worrying won't do anything other than spoil our time,” he offered, hoping that she would just take the bait and drop the subject.

“I understand that, but that doesn't ease the worry. And I don't know why you're getting your wallet out,” she huffed at him, her expression showing one of that stubborn determination that she was well known for in the court room.

“You paid last time,” he pointed out, well remembering their little game of who had done what last. He sneered to himself directly after, managing to force it into a smirk. This grew into a smile as she folded her arms over her chest in frustration.

“I suppose that means I get to take care of dinner, then, yes?” she questioned, raising one brow a him and this stayed his hand. He knew she'd try and get them somewhere fancy, and he was left with the dilemma of having to pick between a relatively cheap lunch for victory, or paying for dinner later.

“Alright, fine,” he conceded, tone deadpan and dry, pushing his wallet back into his inner jacket pocket. It felt like a victory as she brightened, her posture straightening as she perked up emotionally. He chided himself as he realized he hadn't done a sweep of the restaurant as he always did, his attention moving from her to their surroundings.

Her knuckles brushing his ribs pulled him from his identifying exits and his hand zipped up to catch her, his grasp tight and his movement jagged. She jerked in surprise and let out a faint gasp which caused him to instantly alter his grip of her. “Sorry,” he whispered, panic banging in his chest like a jackhammer as he tried to reassure himself that despite her position, she hadn't been going for his gun.

Thankfully, they both seemed settled by the time they were sitting down in a table, his back in a corner as he liked and her fiddling with a straw for the iced coffee she had gotten. He waited, watching her muscles loosen and taking a catalog of how she looked that way before he rose his shoulders to straighten his back. “So, who's Sean?” he questioned of her. He'd talk about anything to get away from the unpleasantness of scaring her, and he was curious regardless.

He was expecting many different reactions. Guilt, pain, anger, anything other than what he got, which was bright laughter. “My little brother,” she said, laughing further as he, in turn, relaxed. Why it worried or upset him, though he couldn't identify which, he didn't know. He just knew the idea of her spending her time with some other man, looking at someone else how she looked at him, didn't sit right for him. It made his stomach clench and lurch like waking up from chloroform. 

“Oh, you have a little brother?” he asked, wanting to not seem like he remembered every little thing she had ever said. He was never so naïve as to believe that a person couldn't know two people with the same name, and his jealousy had gotten the better of him in that moment.

“Yes, I thought I told you about him? He's the reason I became a lawyer,” she said rather matter of factly, as if her brother had done the work, gone through college and she merely reaped the benefits of his labor.

He studied her with confusion, clearly not sure how one person could motivate another into such a large life change. For him things were always clear. He was an agent because that is what he was made to be. He performed his jobs because he was told to and it lined his pockets well. 47 simply didn't have enough relationships with others to understand growing so close that something they did could so drastically effect his life. Clearly, he was blind to the fact he was in a city he hated, during a brief window where he should be more focused on reading up on his upcoming targets, just to see a woman he spent a few hours with half a year ago.

At his silence, Arleen realized he didn't understand. “Sean got picked up for a drug possession charge when we were teenagers. We were hand to mouth and so we were appointed an overworked public defender. You know, after a point some lawyers forget why they're in the field they're in. Or they only went into the job because it pays well. Anyway, he didn't even try, my brother was sentenced to 3 years in a correctional facility, the California Youth Authority. It's not a good place. Most people who go there end up in prison before probation is over,” she whispered, shaking her head in frustration and the lingering pain the memories brought.

“I asked the attorney why my brother had gotten such a long sentence, why he didn't fight harder. It was his first offense, it wouldn't have been that difficult of a case to get a smaller sentence at a better facility. He said there are just bad people. Bad eggs who are destined to screw up and keep on the wrong side of things. I pointed out that people just need a second chance, because they do. So many inmates could be so much better if they were there in a good place, with rehabilitation for their problems and eased back into society, but instead we throw them in cages with each other and poke them all with sticks and break them down.” She paused, wrinkling up her nose and shaking her head. She was passionate about it, that fire in her eyes and her voice that 47 rarely saw in people and didn't really expect to see it from her.

She lifted her gaze to lock eyes with him, her slender hands held in fists against the edge of the table. “I disagreed with him and I still do. Everyone deserves a second chance. So many people do bad things because of dire circumstances. Forced into something, struggling to take care of themselves or people they love. And I know I'm too far on the other side of the spectrum, I do. I understand that I give too many chances, that I let too many walk free without consequences for their actions which just makes them repeat offenders,” she whispered, looking away from him.

47 is sure she only learned that she was giving too many second chances thanks to her husband, but he can tell she's getting rather worked up about things and so he scrambled his mind to think of something, anything, he can do to settle her down. He recalled her touching his knee under the table when she believed he was upset, and so he shifted towards her a little, one of his warm but rough hands settling on her knee, covering her entire patella with his palm.

She glanced down to her lap and then lifted her hazel eyes to his, locking their gaze as her hands shift to his, curling around his fingers and giving him an obvious look of thanks, closing her eyes tightly as if to better focus on the physical connection between the two of them.

He allows her a few moments to settle and relax, studying her, and then he gives her leg a tender squeeze, well aware he could squeeze her hard enough to separate her knee cap from it's place. It's odd being so gentle with someone, particularly after years and years of being rough with anyone and everyone he came into contact with. 

“Few people are so forgiving, Arleen,” he pointed out, his voice quiet and low as he studied her. “I believe you're forgiving to the point of harm,” he offered further, and at the confused look he received from her, her head lifting to even their gaze, he suddenly felt that maybe he should tread lightly. Unfortunately, his training told him to give information to the proper parties, and he felt she could only learn if she was taught properly. “Your ex-husband, for instance,” he used as an example. The words hadn't fully left his mouth before he realized what an awful idea that was.

“What do you mean? What about my ex-husband?” she asked, and though she was trying to keep a calm tone, her voice sounded like a lawyer trying to draw the right answers out of a witness. Things had just gone from casual conversation to something far deeper, and 47 was lost, trying desperately to discover the line so he wouldn't cross it again.

He held his tongue, considering his options for a few moments. Did he want to continue to push the topic a bit? Should he drop it all together? Should he change the subject or allow silence to fall over the both of them? He hated not having a proper plan of attack, his life often depended on knowing the right move to take in an instant, but in a situation like this he was stuck without proper knowledge of how to continue.

The waitress also was bringing their food and he would prefer to not say anything in front of people who had no business knowing what he was about to say. As soon as they were alone again he inclined his head towards her. “He beat you for, hmmm, two years?” he offered, his eyes narrowing as he focused on her scars for a moment. His tone isn't comforting or warm. There's a bit of concern somewhere in there, but mainly it's poorly masked anger and a cold, informative tone.

Arleen pulled her hands off of his, a very icy and painful gesture from the normally warm and loving woman that it struck 47 deeper than he could have imagined something so simple doing. He removed his hand from her leg to try and make her feel better, but it didn't stop the look of anger and terror that was painted across her face. “What on earth are you talking about?” she demanded answer in a voice that betrayed her. 

“Arleen, please. Relax. I know what blunt force trauma looks like, and I know how to tell how old injuries are. Scars are tricky, but not impossible,” he explained, more concerned about her than about showing his hand. He keeps almost ruining this, and having just accepted what was happening, realizing that it might be best he follow the lead of life instead of running it, he doesn't want it to slip through his fingers.

“I thought you were special operations,” she whispered, her pupils expanding. Arleen could handle most things without worry. A man had put a gun in her face when she had gone on her first date with the killer sitting across from her and she had been more concerned about his well being and helping him than she was about the possibility of being harmed. Day in and day out she dealt with rowdy clients, enraged family members of victims, and random spurts of violence when she went to visit the criminals she defended in jail. But the idea of her husband finding her would always have her glancing over her shoulder. The idea that 47 could be connected to him in some way had her scared, and she was so hyper aware of that danger that she was paranoid and would jump the gun in instances like this.

“I am. I just know injuries,” he explained, his heart pounding loudly in his ears, his voice holding an urgency for her to calm down. “Arleen, what on earth are you so afraid of. I'm here.” He hoped that would be good enough, that his mere presence would some how help things, help her. He's grabbing for straws at this point. He has a need to calm her, and he'll say about anything at this point to do it.

Arleen laughed softly, but some tension did relax out of her. As if what she needed was a body guard. As if she couldn't take care of herself through legal channels. She wouldn't defend herself against her ex-husband if he came around, she knew that much. It wasn't for a lack of power or skill or the stomach for it. Her weakness was that once upon a time she had loved him, and the guilt she felt for her hand in the downfall of their marriage kept her from ever fighting back if he showed up, and that was why she feared it so. In fact, she blamed herself for the bad that happened. She had made the choice that led to everything else. She had set him on the path he ended up falling down.

47 studied her, the rapid breathing and the paleness to her that was far worse than her usual milky complexion. “Look, we never have to discuss it again, okay? We don't have to discuss anything you don't want to. I'm not some contract killer who is going to torture information out of you,” he teased, scoffing, though he had used such an example to see what she would do, how she would take those words.

She laughed more, her body relaxing almost completely. She sniffled a little bit and rubbed at her face as she sucked in a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Malcolm. It was a very tough time for me and I've not spoken to anyone about it,” she explained quietly, studying him for just a moment before putting her focus into her sandwich. “Not even professionally. I wouldn't even know where to start with all that,” she admitted, her lips twisting to one side in a frown.

47 held up one hand, shaking his head at her. “Arleen, it's no trouble. If you feel like discussing things at any point, let me know. We all have secrets,” he reassured her. He felt his chest loosen as she nodded, shrugging her shoulders a bit.

“I hold myself to a double standard in that regard,” she admitted, nervously playing with some of her hair. “I expect everyone else to have secrets, and I don't wish to pry. But when it comes to my own I feel awful for not being open right away,” she whispered, genuinely looking bad for keeping some things to herself. Perhaps it was her open nature, or maybe it was some form of conditioning from her ex-husband.

47 felt his muscles relax a bit more, the child within him daring to cling onto the hope that her words meant that she would fully understand his secrets. He even went as far as to tell himself that not saying anything to her was to protect her. Should anyone find out he'd visited Los Angeles between jobs for no apparent reason, they might question it. They might go looking. If they did they would find her. 

Granted, they would find her regardless of if she had information or not, but 47 knew no matter what odd, confusing things he might possibly be developing for the woman across from him, he had to remain his own priority. If she was found, he would rather she not have information that could be tortured out of her. It wouldn't save her in the least, but it sure would save him.

For some reason the idea of it made his stomach churn, and instantly he understood what she had just finished saying. With nothing to offer any captors who found her, she wouldn't have a way to end the torture. Was it selfish, then, for him to keep his secrets knowing that, should she ever be caught, that she'd suffer without reason or freedom from it. 

He must have gone pale, or clearly been spacey, as her hand reached out and caught his on top of the table. His hand twisted in hers instantly, but right as his hand was wrapping around her wrist in order to break her arm, he realized and softened his touch. His cold blue eyes shot to her face as he laid his other hand over the back of hers.

She didn't flinch this time, though she had tightened and was clearly fighting to not look too startled by it. It was difficult for her to deal with someone who responded how he did to touching after her life. “Are you alright?” she asked gently, her thumb brushing the inside of his wrist.

It was yet another instance that just helped to further build that feeling within him. The closeness and the adoration, though he didn't fully understand that that was what it was just yet. He was moving blind, something he absolutely hated, and was putting at least some measure of trust into another person, something he hated even more. He didn't even like doing so with Diana, but she had proven herself.

Of course, he wasn't about to interact with her unarmed or unaware of the world around him. Hell no. But he would offer his budding emotions, to see if she would shelter them, or stomp them out. Thus far, he'd been met with decent experiences. But like a beaten dog, it would take him time to realize he wasn't being hit anymore, and even longer to trust that he wouldn't be hit again. He could tell she was the same.

He realized he hadn't responded properly, and so he nodded. “Yes,” he promised, giving her hand a small squeeze before withdrawing from the contact again. “Fortunately, we got cold meals,” he offered to switch the focus off of him and onto something else. Distraction was just as important to his life as stealth. 

Arleen laughed softly and nodded, looking down at her sandwich. “Right, yeah,” she whispered, looking sheepish as she tucked some hair back before getting to work eating. She tried to ask him about his recent work, but he dodged most of the questions with the word 'classified.' As soon as he managed to turn the questions around on her and let her talk he returned into the recesses of his mind.

He quickly blurred over the last six months, the few near misses, all of which seemed to be her fault. Her innocent demeanor and her caring manners would intrude into his mind as he was listening to a target, screaming at the top of their lungs as 47 ripped off nails. One time in particular made him the most angry, thinking he had caught her scent only to have a bullet sink into his shoulder moments later. 

Sure, she was dangerous, but the man had never known peace and thus she fit right at home within his world. At least, for now. If the penetrative thoughts of her got him hurt too badly, or heaven forbid allowed a target to escape death, he'd have to let her go. He had to appreciate the fact that the most dangerous person he had interacted with was also the most innocent person he had the fortune of meeting.

A sharp buzzing pulled the two of them out of their thoughts, Arleen silently lamenting the fact that her life wasn't interesting enough for her to talk about at length. 47 tightened initially, until he realized it was her cellphone. She glanced at the screen for a moment and then gave him an apologetic look. “Charlie, I'm on lunch,” she answered, twisting her lips to one side and wrinkling her nose.

Her snark-filled expression disappeared quickly when the man dubbed Charlie began speaking to her. “They found the body?” she asked, excitement clear in her tone. “Is it all in one piece? Great. No, I'm confident that all we need is that body to prove my client is uninvolved in this crime. I've told you that. No, just keep her on ice, I'll be there right away. No, no, he can. I want a full report, I'll sit in. Okay. Yeah, I'd say twenty. Okay. Bye,” she clicked off her phone, her excitement still obvious until her eyes locked onto him.

“Oh, Malcolm, I have to-” she began, stumbling slightly on her words as she weakly gestured to the door of the building. 47 merely smirked, amused by the sheer amount of happiness she exhibited over a corpse. His kind of woman. 

“Go ahead. I understand. I'll see you for dinner. 6:30?” he asked, raising his brows, endlessly amused at her antsy manner as she took care to carefully wrap up her sandwich and tucked it into her briefcase. She got up and pulled him into an embrace that was thankfully slow in the making so he couldn't get too tense. It seemed as if she was learning how to deal with him.

The speed of the touching didn't help things for 47, who was just as tense. He simply didn't feel a need to snap her neck for what he believed to be an attack, but that didn't help for the killer who had only experienced the touch of someone who didn't intend him harm from Arleen. He was thus in no way used to it.

He patted her on her side, the only place he could properly reach due to the position and the only way he could think to show his returned attempted at affection. She pulled from him, laid some money down on the table, and promised to be ready at 6:30 before she power walked out of the restaurant, shifting her stride into a full jog once she was outside. 

47 appreciated the fact she was moving at a decent speed in those heels of hers, and watched her until she disappeared from his sight, even when he craned his head. It was so odd having her just up and leave a situation for work, but 47 realized he got other people to do that exact same thing for him many times over his career.

He glanced down to the sandwich he had gotten, and felt his appetite return, as it had been suppressed by the nervousness and vexation her presence caused. He had gone here just to see her, yes, but he wasn't prepared for the onslaught of confusing feelings. He was never trained for such things, which is exactly why he was trained to stay away. Clearly, that training didn't stick as well as the rest of it. But 47 had always rebelled against the training and rules and doctors. They figured it was in part why he was so good at what he did, even if it was aggravating to them.

He finished his sandwich rather quickly once he had time alone to himself, fighting the annoyance that swelled with realizing how little he had eaten with Arleen there. He decided the best way he could spend his time was to focus on his upcoming hits. He wouldn't let something as unimportant as attraction get in the way of his job. No matter how nice he was sure she would look tangled up naked in some sheets. 

Damn those intrusive thoughts. He'd never get work done that way. He concluded it wouldn't be so horrible for him if it weren't for the fact that he liked to know every detail of something, and the knowledge that there were freckles he couldn't see drove him mad with the want to satisfy that curiosity. 

Worse still was some odd moral reasoning kept him from simply drugging her and finding things out that way. He could, easily, but there was something that tickled his most primal of thoughts to wait until she was falling over herself to show him each freckle, each scar. The idea was enough to give him such a pleased feeling that even finding himself right back in front of his hotel room without fully being aware of his feet taking him there wasn't enough to sour him again. 

Now, onto study. He set an alarm and got to work learning every single thing he could from being half a world away from his current target list. He would make it work, because for some reason he couldn't explain she was worth it. At least for now, until she messed up. Odder still was he had a feeling, and a dash of faith, that she wouldn't. That she would stay the shining, innocent little woman he felt some protective drive for.

He hoped so, anyway. He didn't want to give his faith blindly, and the act of doing so made him feel like a kid again, and made his connections to her all the stronger. And it was with a true air of excitement that he focused on the men he would be murdering in a few days time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything he does around her makes him feel more out of place, and right when he thinks he can't possibly fix it, she manages to get him to feel able to press forward again. If things continue in this way, maybe he genuinely has a chance.

The shrill beeping from his bedside table kicks his pulse up for just a moment, not well used to hearing the sharp sound, causing him to suck in a breath. He shot a glare over his shoulder, one of his hands reaching out to turn off the alarm as he rises, each movement smooth, planned, and controlled. 

He takes a quick mental inventory of himself, of his day, the information he just stored away. He takes the time to center his tie and straighten his suit jacket, his mind returning to her excitement over a dead body, tugging the ghost of a smirk from one corner of his mouth.

He wonders if this will be one of those instances in which she forgets the time all together. He had noticed she was awful at keeping track of it. She'd focus on something and forget to sleep, recalling her mentioning how she often only remembered she should sleep when her alarm was going off.

He found himself stepping into her firm, a nod to the secretary and a professional stride kept him from questions, though perhaps it was in part to his showing up earlier. But 47 knows the right outfit and a purposeful stride gets him into most any place. Thankfully everyone here is also wearing a suit, which further helps him to blend in.

Their conversation is brief, and he likes it that way. That is his comfort zone, and it allows him to take control of the situation. He tells her to head to her place, that he'd follow, and he'd bring food. He uses her distraction of her cases, and the embarrassment of him taking her by surprise a second time in one day, to get what he wants, which is her not whimpering about costs.

He turned on his heel before she could argue, bought some pasta, he'd seen her eat it before after all, and some white wine. The alcohol is nearly automatic, but once he gets a moment to consider he realizes she either will completely ignore it, give it a few sips to please him, or be happy to have something to ease the dull of being busy at work.

47 knew well just how great a glass of scotch or whiskey felt after far too much work in far too little time. He did not envy Arleen, either. Her work load was so drastically different from his. For him, it was simple. A hit was given, he brushed up on them, discovered the best plan of attack, finished the job, and awaited the next assignment.

Arleen had over a hundred cases at any given time, and had to some how remember the details of each. 47 knew he would not be able to manage too many projects at once. Too high of a chance for information to be forgotten, and the smallest thing could be the difference between life and death. Forgetting how many people lived in a house, or one number to a security system, could leave him vulnerable to capture or death.

Arleen was still in her entry way, having not gotten to her home long before he had, when he knocked his knuckles against the door. He rolled his eyes as a frown cut deeply into face at the sound of her clearly getting startled. How had she not seen his car coming into her driveway? The frown only deepened as she pulled open the front door without checking to see who it might be.

When she spotted him, wine and pasta boxes in his hands, and a frown quickly turning into a sneer on his face, she rose her brows up at him. “What?” she asked softly, glancing around outside as if whatever it was that had bothered him so much was out there, stepping to one side to let him in.

He felt some of his frustration melt away once he stepped into the house. She was barefoot now, and he always forgot how much those heels did for her. Without them she seemed so much more vulnerable. He shifted on his heel to face her, his sharp eyes locked onto her face as she shut her front door.

“You didn't even check to see who it was,” he explained, his voice steady, firm, but mostly informative, like a father trying to explain something to his beloved child. “I could have meant you harm,” he pointed out, though he had hardly finished his sentence when she playfully rolled her eyes, laughing. 

“Malcolm, I knew you were coming along after me. Who else could it have been?” she asked, sliding out of her suit jacket. Once it was in the closet she turned back towards him, her hands settling on her wide hips. 47 felt almost as if he was being the one scolded for a moment, but he simply firmed his resolve.

“You are a criminal defense attorney with her home address on her business card, and you open the door every time without glancing to see who could be on the other side,” he pointed out, his voice deadpan, though perhaps a bit on edge. 

What did he miss about her again?

Though, he supposed as he watched her huff a laugh, wave one hand dismissively, and wrinkled up that nose of hers, that those actions were a small fraction of the things that had invaded his mind the past several months. He exhaled in defeat and tipped his head back for only a moment before returning it to a more defensive position.

“Never mind,” he cut her off right before she had started to defend herself. “We shouldn't ruin our night because you lack survival instincts,” he teased, exposing his teeth a moment and stepping for her kitchen, listening to her following after him like a well trained dog.

“I do too have survival instincts,” she retorted quietly, folding her arms even if it went unseen by him. She touched at his hip as she reached around him once they both were in the kitchen to snag wine glasses, hardly aware of the way he tightened up. 

Like always he had nearly attacked her, his hand reaching down, every muscle already set into a well trained sequence of events, which should have ended with her on the floor. Instead, he simply covered her hand for a moment, gritting his teeth before releasing her again, offering her hand a gentle pat. If she noticed the potential danger, she didn't bat an eyelash over it.

Together they were able to get their dinner set up properly, if you could call sitting on her old leather couch proper, but she seemed perfectly content with it. “So, you haven't been doing anything too dangerous, right?” she asked, shifting her bright eyes over to lock onto his face. 

He rose a brow in return but remained stoic and silent, which seemed to mildly unnerve her. She began to fumble over her words, her hands gesturing vaguely at nothing. “Well, I mean. Not super dangerous. I know it's dangerous,” she stumbled over her words, and eventually screwed her eyes shut.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he answered in his quiet, gravel filled voice, watching her through the corner of his eye as he pretended to be more focused on his plate. It was easy to make her squirm, and the hitman loved to see just how easy it could be.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” she echoed, her voice sounding a bit more worried. “Are we going by injuries, successful missions, explosions,” she rattled off, her attention far more on him than anything else, even if she did sip her wine directly after speaking. 

“My missions are always successful,” he answered, sounding like any other soldier Arleen had run across. He even sat straighter, turning to face her as he spoke, as if that would make her more likely to believe him.

Her right hand reached out slowly, her eyes locked with his until just the moment before her thumb brushed a long scar on the left side of his chin. “Always?” she asked, tightening up her eyes and showing off her own scars.

He managed to be properly gentle as he caught her hand and lowered it from his face. “Most of the time,” he amended, his expression pinching a bit, showing his displeasure for admitting failure. “Very few injuries, mostly successful missions,” he clarified, using her own terms, a natural habit that came from being trained to blend in with those around him.

She tightened up her eyes as if suspicious, reclining back as she eased her hand from his. “Your silence on explosions is disconcerting,” she informed him teasingly, returning her gaze back to her plate to get another bite of food, though she could almost feel his frustration in the air. It served only to amuse her, and her nose wrinkled up to show it.

He spotted her freckled nose do that thing. That bunched up motion that hid those freckles. That thing he actually enjoyed. He shut his eyes in annoyance at himself. He shouldn't have come back, he knew he shouldn't, but he enjoyed her teasing, and teasing her in return, too damn much. He forced his jaw to loosen a bit as he settled back more, putting his arm up along the back of the couch to try and seem more relaxed, managing to eat one handed though he was nearly finished with his plate.

If Arleen noticed how forced his relaxation was, she didn't let on. When he asked her about her cases, if anything interesting had happened, she discussed her finalized cases, speaking at equal length both her triumphs and failures. Arleen simply found law interesting, though she always felt terrible for losing a case, feeling as if she had failed not only on the case, but had failed her client, and herself.

This was, perhaps, one of the things he found most interesting about her. When he found himself with an unsuccessful mission, it was thanks to the agency, or the client giving deliberately false information. He hated failure, and in his profession it was dangerous beyond his reputation. He couldn't imagine having the view she seemed to have of win some, lose some.

Arleen was content to sit there, one shoulder right near the crook of his elbow, not nestling into him nor keeping a forced distance. She was happy to sit in her place, to let him make the decision regarding the distance between the two of them. She didn't want to crowd him as she had learned well enough already that he had a severe problem with touching, or someone being too close.

He noticed her attempts at consideration, how could he not when she was as subtle as a mac truck, but made no mention of it. Perhaps because he appreciated it, perhaps because he loved watching the way that people treated one another, her in particular, or perhaps it was simply because he loved seeing how far a person would go.

Arleen never pushed him to talk about things, and when there was a lull in the conversation she was more than happy to fill in the gaps with whatever she could think of. Old cases that she had found interesting and figured he might find enjoyment in hearing about it, friends, co-workers, even a bit about her siblings. 47 noticed she didn't say a word about her ex-husband.

For some reason he enjoyed it, her attempts at keeping him entertained being enough to entertain him, let alone the stories she was telling. He did notice something about the way she got when speaking about a prosecutor she dealt with often, some man named Fletcher that caused her to look so frustrated and annoyed that he worried he would end up having to calm her back down.

It was as intriguing as it was entertaining. Arleen seemed unshakable in her constant patience, so for someone to bother her to such a point was interesting indeed to the contract killer. He wondered just what is was about him. Arleen could complain in her stories all she wished, but it didn't give him a true window into what it was that rubbed her the wrong way about the other lawyer. 

“Would you defend him?” he asked, one of the few times he ever asked a question when listening to her speak. Arleen was terrible about rambling, she detested talking without a focal point. In court she had a reason to speak. Ask her a question and she'll deliver an answer. But her simply talking was nothing but a task.

“Of course I would,” she answered, her brows furrowing and her voice holding a clear tone of confusion. “Why wouldn't I defend him?” she asked, leaning towards him just a bit, more enthralled in the conversation now that it wasn't her simply speaking to try and fill the silence.

“You seem to hate him,” he explained for his reasoning, studying her and her position in relation to him. He could get his arm around her shoulders without dragging her against his side. He would seem a lot more normal if he did, he reasoned with himself. He brought his arm down slow, his hand cupping her deltoid on the opposite side of her body.

“So? That doesn't mean to is undeserving of counsel or representation,” she whispered, relaxing as he put his arm around her. “And I wouldn't say I hate him. He just frustrates me. He's a great lawyer, and that's bad news for me,” she pointed out, her hands settling in her lap.

47 furrowed his brows at her, twisting his lips to one side. “So you dislike him because he beats you in court?” he asked for clarification, doing his very best to keep his tone steady as he watched the expression on her face turn almost scandalized for him suggesting that was the reason.

“No, that isn't why. He's rude,” she admitted, furrowing his brows as he chuckled, looking away from her for a moment to be sure his expression was schooled. Laughter wasn't exactly something he was used to, though it was one of the things that drew him to her. She made him laugh. “What?” she asked for clarification, her voice holding an obvious pout.

He glanced back to her, shrugging his shoulders. “So rudeness is what does it? Not killing someone, or shoving a gun in your face. But being rude, that's unforgivable?” he questioned, tilting his head subtly to one side, watching her as she folded her arms under her chest, her legs drawing up more so her knees were pushing into his thigh.

“People who do violent things often times something terrible happened to them to make them that way. A bad childhood, a risk to their own safety, something. Rude people are just spoiled, gifted everything in life and unaware of the fact other people are struggling through life,” she explained, leaning back against the cushions of the couch.

He was quiet for a moment as he considered this line of thinking. He simply couldn't wrap his mind around it. Too many people he had removed from this world seemed to be born cold, cruel, and vicious. The idea of them being innocent little children and having some type of life defining moment that turned them into the monsters he choked the life out of was beyond his scope of thought.

“So, how long are you going to be around this time?” she asked quietly, lifting her eyes to his face, looking soft and vulnerable. She was the perfect mix of intelligent, yet terribly stupid when it came to survival. Forgiving, but seemed unable to believe that she was worth forgiveness in turn. While he was sure that, if given the chance, he could find a woman just like her in any city, he found himself enjoying her presence more and more.

“Few days, same as before,” he explained, able to feel her deflating subtly under his hand. Boldly, he brought her closer against his side, only stopping when he felt her handle settle over his ribs. “But I don't have anything else to focus on this time,” he offered to her. This was a lie for two reasons. He did have other things to focus on this time, where as when they had met he was enjoying some actual vacation time.

Arleen's legs had slid onto his thigh a bit when he had brought her closer, but she hardly noticed it, nor the fact one of her hands was curling into his suit jacket. She bit back a frown, nodding her head as she tried to figure out how to go about maximizing their time together.

47 could see those gears turning in her head and he patted her deltoid. “Arleen, we already spoke about this. At lunch?” he asked quietly, raising his brows at her. He'd be worried if he wasn't so sure that, number one, he retained everything that happened around him, and number two, Arleen was a woman with a pile of cases on her plate at all times.

Arleen bit her bottom lip and wrinkled up her nose. “Right,” she whispered sheepishly, a faint blush covering her cheeks. This was getting too intimate for him, and he had been doing his best to push himself beyond his comfort zone. If nothing else, Arleen was a great training tool. He would learn how to deal with things such as this, and being able to connect at this sort of an intimate level would sure help him to get into higher security areas.

He stood, gathering up their plates. It was absolutely alien for him, but he knew it was what normal people do. He knocked back the remains of his wine glass, leaving hers on the table, smirking once he had his back turned at her sputtering.

She got up and followed after him, carrying her own wine glass. “You bought dinner, and you're a guest in my house. I should be cleaning,” she finally articulated, her eyes tightening as she spotted the smug look on his face as he glanced over his shoulder.

“You were at work all day,” he countered, setting the plates next to the sink before shedding his suit jacket. Arleen automatically took it as he extended it to her. At this point, he was trying to see how far he could push her. He could see her out of his peripheral vision, practically chewing on her bottom lip while clutching his suit jacket against her chest, her other hand setting the wine down well away to avoid spilling on it.

He rolled up his dress shirt sleeves to his elbow, hardly putting any focus into his task. He was paying attention to her and her lack of reaction at fully seeing his double holster, and a good portion of his focus remained on keeping the area around him safe, studying the horizon and listening to every passing car.

“I can't properly express to you how illegal that is,” she admitted quietly, earning another chuckle from the contract killer. Though as her eyes moved from his holster to his arms, where he had significantly more scars than he did on his face.

“You really need to be more careful,” she whispered quietly, her brows drawn together as she touched gently at his left forearm, making absolutely sure to not hinder his ability to clean the dish he was currently working on.

He glanced down at her, always forgetting how much shorter she was without her heels on. “I am now. Those are old,” he explained, glancing to her with a bit of a smug grin as he finished the last piece of silverware. 

Arleen pulled in a breath as if she wanted to scold him, to get after him more for his apparent lack of concern for himself, but she could tell no amount of her concern or fretting would help him when he was in the thick of it, and they weren't anything remotely official, her even worrying about this was silly.

She offered him a dry towel for his hands, waiting patiently for him to finish fixing the sleeves of his shirt. She offered the heavy black jacket to him, watching as he shrugged it on with the same level of routine she had when she did the same motion.

“It's late. We should both sleep,” he informed her, glancing to the clock over her oven before returning his icy eyes to her soft face. “I'll see you tomorrow for lunch,” he reassured her, bowing his head a bit to try and make himself appear more serious.

“Alright,” she conceded, unaware of how obvious she had been in her worry and want to keep him around longer, as if that would help him once he was off again to wherever he was asked to go. While Arleen hadn't ever met someone in a special operations division of any branch of the military, something told her he wasn't any sort of American soldier, but she was too trusting to dare give even a questioning thought any of her time.

Their goodbyes for the night weren't climatic. He cupped her deltoid and she touched his forearm and then just like before he was gone, driving back down the highway towards the city of angels while she stood in her doorway, watching the tail lights fade into the distance before finally closing and locking her front door.


	8. Chapter 8

Rapid beeping penetrated the quiet in Arleen's bedroom, and though she was often a jumpy creature she was too used to her alarm to be disturbed by it anymore. She drew in a deeper breath, cracking open her unfocused eyes, checking the open window above her to see how much light was in the sky.

She rolled over, pressing the off button on her alarm and pushed herself to sit, her flannel sheets pooled in her lap as she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. The crisp cold hit her and she shuddered, her expression shifting to one of distaste, peeking past her fingers as if some personification of the cold would be standing in front of her.

To ward off the frigid air she pulled on the black silk robe that matched her night gown, rubbing at the scar on her left wrist to warm up that area in particular. Scar tissue always hurt, and the cold always reminded her of just how she got that scar. One would think she would make sure to move somewhere without any cold moments, but she couldn't imagine living a landlocked life.

She snagged her phone, looking over the e-mails she had gotten over the course of the night as she made her way out to her kitchen, clicking on her coffee maker. She put her weight on her elbows on the counter, clicking out a reply to a co-worker on the small digital keyboard.

“Jesus,” she whispered to herself after catching a glimpse of the state of her hair in the screen of her phone after clicking off the display. She drew her fingers through the frizzy, tangled mess, wrinkling up her nose when she hit a few knots. She checked the time on the clock over the oven, despite her phone being right near one of her elbows, and clicked her tongue at herself. She'd manage her morning if she snagged breakfast on the way to work instead of attempting to cook herself something.

As soon as there was enough coffee in the pot for her to pour herself a single cup she did so, not bothering with sugar or anything else. Long ago she had given up on the time it took to make coffee up, and she could now stomach any sort of coffee black, no matter how bad.

She left her phone on the counter, and took a deep breath as she stepped out of the back door in her kitchen. Her backyard had no fence, just two chairs, though she only ever used one, and a whole lot of sand beyond the small cement slab connected to the house.

She wrinkled her nose as she stepped into the sand, closing her eyes as she made the short trek to the chairs. She took the same path every time, and knew it by heart. This was her morning routine, a cup of coffee, the sound of the ocean, watching the sky as the sun rose, finding a joy in each and every color the light turned the clouds above her head.

Somewhere within the city 47 was looking at the exact same thing, though it held no wonder or comfort for him. His morning routine had him running along the uneven sand of the beaches. If nothing else, he enjoyed the fact he could get access to such terrain. Sand was an enemy to the chase. It gave differently than the softest of dirt, offered resistance, and could hide rocks, holes, or other things one might need to navigate. Not to mention there were often cliffs, like the one he was headed towards. Another fantastic chance for him to practice something he might run across while chasing down someone.

Once the sky was blue, and her mug of coffee was empty, Arleen made her way back inside to start getting ready for work. She snagged her phone off the counter, sat the mug inside the sink, and made her way back to her bedroom with a hurried pace. She turned on her shower, responding to whatever new e-mails had popped up over the course of the past twenty or so minutes while the water heated.

She only stepped into the spray once she was able to spot steam rising off the water, always worried about stepping into a shower that is too cold. She didn't have time to enjoy the warmth, however, as she did have a schedule to keep to. Arleen always sacrificed having a relaxed pace in the morning due to her love of watching the sunrise. She figured they balanced one another, one bringing her peace, the other giving her a needed kick to start out her inevitably busy day.

She got dressed in another one of her tailored, relatively uninteresting skirt suits. Arleen would give 47 all the teasing in the world over his similar suits, but she was in a suit much like all her others. A standard three piece, gray in color, skirt just above the knee, dress shirt another sort of purple. She didn't even consider that she may be opening the door for him to tease her.

She struggled to make it out to her car on time, tugging on her suit jacket, carrying her briefcase and thermos in one hand. She slid into her car, rolled down her window, and drove off, breathing in the sea air for as long as she could, and drying out her hair as she made her way to work, pausing only long enough to get a scone from a small coffee shop nearby.

The busy pace continued once she got to work, having hardly a half an hour to check her schedule for her court cases for the day and brush up on the first one. Thankfully the first court appearances of each day are smaller things. Everyone has an understanding to not touch the more serious cases until at least after 9AM. So she deals with the failures to appear, the restitution cases, the ending of probation or parole, appeals, all the shorter cases that still have her briskly moving through the halls of the court.

Thankfully, she is out by 10:30, and she can visit with a few clients. Of course, Arleen is a sympathetic woman, taking extra time with every client, and never watching the clock. She doesn't realize she is bleeding into her lunch time until a heavy handed knock on the door.

“Come in,” she called, assuming a co-worker was on the other side, returning her attention to her client, not the door. She furrowed her brows in worry when the man sitting across from her, a hardened man that seemed unflappable, became visibly uncomfortable, shrinking slightly from the door.

47 stood in the doorway, his icy stare locked onto the man, giving him a look of warning before turning his attention onto Arleen. He worried she might trip over herself with how fast she got herself out of her chair, scrambling over to him in her excitement. She managed to keep herself rather graceful, more than used to quickly moving around.

Her arms wound around him, already knowing how to shape herself to avoid his guns, hands sliding under his jacket without exposing the holster, gripping the dress shirt over his spine. He wasn’t sure he’d get used to it, but he wrapped an arm around her, his eyes locking onto the man again, mouth set into a straight line.

“You’re missing your lunch,” he said to Arleen, his fingers trying to navigate through her curls. There was an audience, and 47 had to act the right way, particularly since he did not trust the man he knew instantly to be a criminal. 47 might have no room to act pious, but he certainly didn’t have to act cordial.

“Oh, I’m sure I am,” she admitted, pulling away a bit slower than normal, encouraged by his touch to remain against him. Arleen was well aware of her client, however, though she spotted the expression on 47’s face as she pulled from him. She assumes he is merely paranoid, and doesn’t take the look to heart at all, turning right around to speak to her client.  
Arleen generally was a professional, but this particular client was a repeat offender that she had personally defended multiple times in the past few years, and she knew he wouldn’t be put off like a first offender might have been.

“Jack, I’ll have to meet with you again. You’ve been here for almost two hours,” she gently reprimanded, happy that it was lunch he cut into, not another client’s time. He smiled a shaky smile, still very intimidated by the imposing form of 47 in the door of the small office as he stood.

If Arleen noticed the look he was giving 47 she ignored it, just like she ignored her date’s expression. She shooed Jack out of her office before she got to work getting ready for lunch, putting away her files, putting her computer to sleep, and sucking down the last swigs of her coffee. 

It never failed to amuse him, the things she would do when trying to hurry. He had watched her shove most of a doughnut into her mouth and break into a run before. A faint smirk played at his mouth as he held the door to her office open for her, and it grew slightly at the pout she threw his way once she caught the expression on his face.

He followed her to the door of her firm, holding the door for her, stepping out into the always hot air of southern California. He grimaced slightly, never one to care for the heat. He preferred the cold, it didn’t bother him as much. Arleen seemed to be the opposite, shivering once the temperature fell below 65 degrees with an suffering expression on her face.

“So, clearly I’m buying lunch,” she commented, not even looking at him as she hummed to herself, considering her options. He’d gotten dinner from god knows where last night, and Arleen always wanted to repay the perceived debt. “You like Asian?” she asked, finally turning her face to him, her eyes squinting slightly against the bright sky, showing off those scars of hers.

“I’ve never met a woman so obsessed with paying for meals,” he said, his voice relatively deadpan as he looked down at her. Even in her heels he was taller than her, he could tuck his chin over her head. 

“You haven’t met many women, then,” she teased softly, though was quick to brush the subject away. “So was that a yes to Asian?” she asked, wrinkling up her slender nose, a bit of her tongue poking out from between her teeth.

“Yes,” he agreed, his voice still lacking in emotion. He could only experience and show so much, and in fact he didn’t feel confident at all in exposing his emotions. She got the fumes of the feelings he was working through within his mind, though she seemed content with it all the same.

“Do you even have food preferences?” she questioned, automatically reaching for the door of a nearby restaurant, a bit of a surprised look coming across her face when he smoothly intercepted her attempts.

“Of course I do,” he said, exposing his teeth in a half sneer at the idea that he didn’t have preferences. He hoped she would drop it there, as he had no examples he could think of off hand. Food was fuel, something to keep him going, and while he enjoyed getting the best he could, beyond that he was not a picky man.

“Oh? Like what?” she asked, looking over her shoulder to him as she walked over to the counter, keeping her eyes locked onto him as he stepped up alongside her. 

He could feel her eyes on him, and he glared at the menu above his head before looking down at her. “Arleen, order,” he grumbled at her, again showing his teeth as he spoke, like a dog warning someone to not get too close.

She wrinkled her nose up at him, ordering a few things onto a three item plate. 47 felt most of his frustration leave him as he looked down at her, the kind way she interacted with the man behind the counter. It returned when she looked at him almost expectantly when it was his turn to order.

Their staring match was short lived, locking his eyes onto the man to pointedly ignore Arleen, unable to help himself to merely pick the things that seemed freshest and most filling. The faint laughter from the woman at his side caused his jaw to tighten. He wasn’t genuinely angry with her, he knew that much, and thus he couldn’t fully identify the emotion he was feeling.

Money and boxes were exchanged, and 47 took charge to find them a table nearest the air conditioner vent possible, wanting to enjoy the cold air. He also was not opposed to seeing Arleen make a pinched face once she realized, and did his best to suppress a grin when she did exactly as he predicted.

“You gotta learn to relax,” Arleen suggested to him as she popped apart her chopsticks. “You being that tense is going to send you to an early grave,” she commented further, stuffing some noodles into her face before being startled by his laughter.

How could he not laugh? Between the terrible way she was holding her chopsticks, and what she had just suggested, it was one of the more amusing moments of 47’s life. “Arleen, out of all the things to kill me, it won’t be because I was too tense,” he informed her, his expression and voice softening a bit due to her still sitting there, like a deer in headlights, noodles hanging out of her mouth.

She bit off the food half stuck out of her mouth, thickly swallowing it. “It isn’t funny, Malcolm,” she whined, setting down her chopsticks in an effort to appear more serious, her lips pressed together firmly. 

“Sure it is. You asked me last night about explosions and you still refuse to acknowledge that stress is the last worry on my mind,” he pointed out, getting to work on his own plate, watching as she awkwardly tried to get her chopsticks back into the ‘right’ positions in her hand.

“A girl can dream,” she whispered sullenly, taking a few small bites before lifting her head up again. “Speaking of explosions, you never answered yesterday,” she observed, her eyes locking onto him, her pupils slightly expanding.

He pressed his lips into a thin line, letting her lock their gaze, his expression a mix of frustrated and worried. “I don’t want you to think about what I do,” he said evenly, truthfully. He didn’t want her scared for him, though the idea of someone caring enough to be remotely worried about him, and not because of assets or financial interest, was nice.

“I don’t care what you do. I just care that you’re safe,” she responded, her brows drawing low as if she is confused by her own emotions on the matter, her eyes looking off to one side. She’s clearly being honest, though 47 had well learned that she was awful at lying when it was outside her cases.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, watching her as she tentatively brought her gaze back to him. She looked small, vulnerable, and he bit back a sigh as he shifted forward, letting his bare hand find her knee. Sure enough her small hands found his work roughened one within moments, and he could just barely feel the scar on her wrist against his fingers.

“I am safe,” he reassured, though it sure did take him several moments to speak. She clearly fretted during his silence, and her hands tightened upon his fingers. He finds it endearing how she worries over him more for each second of silence. “I swear. I do everything in my power to be safe,” he whispered further, letting himself lean in more, hoping to show her he was serious.

She bit her lip when he drew in closer, a faint pink hue blossoming in her cheeks, and he felt a tightness within his chest. He squeezed her knee, needing to break the contact, and pulled from her, straightening his posture.

“Come on, eat. Have to get you back to work soon,” he said, glancing down to the watch on his left wrist before he focused on eating again. The muscles in his back relaxed as she began eating again, and he took the silence that settled comfortably between them to mull over things within his mind. 

He wished he could express how wonderful it was to be able to simply be with another person that was still alive and able to speak. He wanted to tell her that she gave him a thrill that killing never had, but the only things he could compare his feelings for her to were random small animals he had cared for over the years, or people he had grown close to whenever he tried to escape the agency. None of those stories ended pleasantly and he wasn’t sure he had learned enough from his past mistakes to protect her.

She touched at his arm suddenly some time later, and he didn’t tighten up or try to harm her. She seemed absolutely pleased with the development, but he felt his breath leave him. That was the sort of behavior that was going to end with her six feet under and him sent for retraining. Again.

His expression almost was one of fear, so she tightened her grip upon his forearm, leaning in more. “It’s alright, Malcolm,” she whispered almost lovingly, her free hand settling over his bicep. His hand curled around her forearm, and he noticed she didn’t tighten as his fingers closed around her scar.

“Time to get back to work?” he questioned, assuming that was what she was getting his attention for. She currently had two hands on his left arm, making it downright impossible to check the time. 

She nodded, slowly sliding her hands from his arm. Unlike most lunches he had seen her eat, she had actually finished this one. Despite being in his own little world he had continued eating. There were just some activities he could autopilot through. He wasn’t sure it was a good thing that he was to such a point of comfort as to not be alert around her, in fact he was certain it absolutely was not, but as he watched her pick everything up off the table he found himself too endeared to bother worrying about it right now.

He held the door for her, tightening his eyes at the heat he had happily forgotten about for the duration of their meal. The sneer of displeasure remained on his face, and Arleen wrapped her arms around one of his as if that would soothe it away.

“It isn’t that bad, Malcolm,” she cooed, setting her jaw on his deltoid. He could feel her breath against his neck for just a moment, and he closed his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him. 

“It is, Arleen. I don’t know how you deal with this every day,” he said, trying to playfully banter with her. It was awkward and stiff, but she tightened her grip on his arm, the back of his hand forced against her hip for a moment, and he assumed that meant he was doing something right.

“It’s not so bad in winter, I promise,” she said, glaring sidelong at him when he hummed in disbelief. “It isn’t. It gets cold. Like 45 degrees sometimes,” she said, trying to argue her point. His deep, rumbling chuckle served only to make her pout.

“Some places I go only get that warm in summer,” he stated, an unconfident grin spreading on his face at the sound she produced, something like a squawk or a squeak. She gently pressed her elbow into his ribs as soon as she spotted the look on his face. It just made him smile more, she always did make him feel normal, or at least closer to it than he had managed before.

“Are you going somewhere cold next?” she asked, fighting to keep her tone even, to not break the mood. She would always worry, but she didn’t have to always show that worry, and she knew it. But that would take time, and Arleen wasn’t going to force herself to act as if she was not affected by it. Besides, Arleen was pretty sure he didn’t know his safety was important to someone. She wanted to let him know.

“Hopefully it’ll be colder than here, but I haven’t checked the weather reports,” he lied, shrugging his shoulders. It should be a pleasant mid-sixties temperature in his next location, but he didn’t want to risk anything. Arleen was smart, and she got his guard down, a dangerous mix when he couldn’t have her let in on any sensitive information.

He glanced up to her firm once they were in front of it, but got his attention pulled back to her when she asked if he was coming to her place for dinner tonight. “I could make steak and potatoes. I’d bet you’re a man that loves steak and potatoes,” she whispered, letting go of his arm only to grab his tie.

He sucked in a breath and swallowed the heat in his chest as she wound the silk around her fingers. “If you manage to get out of here at a decent time,” he said, smirking down at her cautiously. 

She stuck out her tongue a bit, but released his tie. “Scouts honor,” she promised, smiling up at him. “And hey, if you want to go in early there is a key under my front door welcome mat,” she said, nodding her head vaguely in the direction of her home.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” he asked, forcing himself to not lecture her. He had managed to put that particular detail out of his mind, but now at the reminder every unsafe practice within her home came flooding back, and it was a struggle to not educate her about being smart. Security saved his life on a weekly basis, he couldn’t imagine being so flippant about it.

“You’re as bad as my brothers,” she sighed, rolling her eyes to one side. He tightened up a bit, wondering if that was going to earn him some type of rant from her, but instead she caught his jaw in her hands. It was hard to not hurt her, but each time she touched him desensitized him further. He wondered if hurting her now might save her a worse hurt in the future, but instead he just sat one hand on her wrist. “I’m fine. I’ve never had a problem. If I am to accept that you know what you’re doing with your job and safety, you have to give me the same acknowledgement,” she whispered, drawing her thumbs along his cheeks.

This closeness had him feeling a whirlwind of things, he could almost feel her nose against his. Showing some apprehension in his face was enough to get her to stop holding him that way, though instead she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his, her cheek nestling along his neck. “I promise, I’m safe,” she offered, hoping to comfort him.

He slowly wrapped his arms around her, one circling her waist, the other going up, his large palm settling between her shoulderblades, his fingers tangling into her curly hair. “I trust you,” he said, forcing himself to actually trust her ability to know what she was doing with the criminals she represented. He pressed his cheek against hers, catching the scent of her hair and perfume as they held one another.

As always it didn’t take long before he was uncomfortable, but he thankfully was able to realize he had slightly lifted her off the ground before he had a chance to just release her from his grip. He bent at the knees, just enough to get her feet back on the ground.

“Dinner, then,” she confirmed, knowing he was a bit easy to scare, her fingers tightening into the back of his suit jacket, one hand flaring over his neck. She was keeping herself against him until she was sure, breathing against his skin over his pulse.

“Yes. Yes, dinner,” he said, hoping to get her to release him. His breathing had turned shallow, his hands moving to her hips to make it clear he wasn’t clinging to her, and he was thankful once she began to pull away. He enjoyed their contact but he had to slowly introduce himself to the stimuli. Touch was never good before, and it would take time.

“Alright,” she whispered, her smile kind and glowing. She touched at his chin and kissed at his jaw before fully releasing him. “See you tonight,” she said, her voice low as if it was some grand secret between them, her nose wrinkling up in that weird way it did. 

It helped to relax him, his own smile appearing on his face. It stayed on his face until he found himself in his car. He finally had her permission to go to her home alone, and he was going to sharpen every damn knife she owned. Even if she would never use them against another person it would make him feel better to know she had the option.


	9. Chapter 9

47 stood on the porch to Arleen’s beach home, his eyes locked onto the doormat that current hid the single key to grant him access to the house. He had realized as he pulled into the driveway that it was the first time he had been invited into someone’s home and had a key to get in on his own. 

Childish as it might have been, this was a step for him he had never considered. He picked the key up from under the mat, holding it firmly between his thumb and index for a few moments, studying the white door he stood before. 

He pulled in a deep breath, anticipation and some measure of excitement hitting him, and he turned the key, forcing himself to move quickly, not worrying over any sounds the lock made. He swung open the door and closed it just as fast, listening to the satisfying bang that resulted. 

He slid out of his suit jacket, as if he owned the place, and laid it over the back of her leather couch, rolling up his sleeves before he wandered through the house and locked every single door and window he found that lead to the outside. Except for her bedroom and bathroom, he didn’t feel that much security in what he was doing just yet.

He dug through the drawers in the kitchen, finding every knife he could, and simply snagged the knife block that housed a full set, before going back to the solid wood coffee table. Sharpening knives was mechanical, and after getting his kit he was happy to sit down and relax into the calming, routine feeling of running his stone over the knife. 

The scraping sound was akin to a lullaby for him, his eyes relaxed and unfocused, ears taking over for security as he, for the first time, truly felt as if he was on vacation. Seeing Arleen was fantastic, sure, eating her food was better, but there was a special place in his heart for sharpening dull knives.

He was able to focus on this for hours, taking his time with every knife, getting it perfect, and then he returned to the kitchen. His mind brought back to him the location of every knife, and he replaced it as it had been, as if nothing had changed, even setting her knife block ever so slightly tilted as she had had it. No evidence he had touched anything at all, save for the locks of course.

47 didn’t exactly have the biggest well of hobbies to pick from in order to amuse himself, so after cleaning his guns and sharpening his own knives he decided exercise was the next best thing for him to focus on.

He paused just a little over an hour later when he heard a car scraping across the gravel and sand outside. He decided to finish his set, listening to the unmistakable clicking of Arleen’s heels on the stone path leading to her front door. 

He sat up from his sit-ups just as she stepped in through the door, and he watched her pupils expand once her eyes locked onto him, his tie loose, the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone, his sleeves still rolled up to his elbows. He sat one forearm on his bent up knee, trying to figure out the look on her face, though it was pretty clear after a few moments when he felt heat swirling in his stomach.

Arleen clutched a bit tighter onto the plastic bag in her right hand, setting her briefcase down in a manner that showed how flustered she was, not tucking it against the door of her closet like she generally did. “Steak and potatoes, like promised,” she said, holding up the bag as she got out of her heels.

47 got to his feet and followed her into the kitchen. He wanted to see her response to her freshly sharpened knives, not to mention watching her cook was wildly enjoyable. He relaxed his hips against a counter out of her way, and was just folding his arms when she extended her suit jacket to him. “Would you put that over one of the chairs?” she asked gently, rolling her sleeves up.

He had taken the jacket automatically, but found himself rather stunned by the behavior he had just exhibited. He laid her jacket over a chair while he listened to her find things in her cabinets and fridge. He turned just in time to watch her snag one of her knives from her block, slicing through a potato with more ease than she was clearly anticipating, and he found himself happy with the response it elicited from her. Her brows popped up, her lips parted, and she looked over the knife as if there would be a reason printed somewhere on it.

“I sharpened them for you,” he explained when she glanced his way. The smile on her face was more than enough to pull one from him, though like all his smiles it was small, and unsure, with no exposure of his teeth.

“Thank you, Malcolm, but you didn’t have to do that,” she said, looking worried, as if sure it had been some huge task that had to have bothered him. She bit at her lip as he shrugged his shoulders to show how small of a task it had been.

“I like sharpening knives,” he reassured her, gesturing for her to continue her work. With her knives this sharp it cut down on her prep time, and soon enough the potatoes were in a heating pot while she seasoned the steaks.

“I got us some wine,” she said as she pulled a bottle of red from one of the bags, getting to work on opening it before finding some glasses. “Figured it would go well with the meal,” she explained, as if she needed to, carefully pouring wine for each of them, relaxing her chest waist against the counter next to him.

“I trust your judgement,” he said, picking up his glass and sipping from it. He didn’t fully trust her judgement, not with how she was with identifying dangerous people. She either had absolutely terrible judgement, or was simply stupid, and he was sure it wasn’t the latter of the two. But she hadn’t lead him astray thus far when it came to food, so he knew he could at least trust her with that.

By the time she was finished cooking he was presented with a plate full of mashed potatoes, asparagus, and steak. She led the way back to her couch, the bottle of wine tucked under one arm, one hand holding her plate aloft, the other clutching her wine glass. 

He was happy to follow her, watching the way she swayed, how she walked on her toes instead of flat footed, her feet used to the arch of her heels. She managed to get the things in her arms on the table without incident, and he stepped around to the side of the couch closest to the front door, as if that was his official place.

The television was turned on but neither of them listened to it. 47 was more than content to ask her questions, get her to keep telling stories that had her giggling into her fingers. Stories of law school, childhood exploits, early days as a lawyer, her brothers. Though she had never been cruel she had pulled a prank or two, physically defended her younger brother to the point of giving a black eye or knocking out a baby tooth from an aggressor. It was at least nice to know she had the capacity to harm someone else if she felt it was warranted.

The more she drank the more animated she became. The more he drank the more he felt the urge to tell her a story in return, but he couldn’t think of any stories appropriate for her. Any story of his had to do with death or the agency. He wasn’t ready to reveal any of that. If not for the training that was ground into him over and over, the fact Arleen might not respond favorably to it also helped to keep him biting his own tongue.

She relaxed against his side after finishing a story he had half paid attention to, his mind wandering thanks to his drinking more than he often allowed. She relaxed her head against his shoulder, and he allowed it, looking down at the freckles he could see on her thighs thanks to her pencil skirt riding up ever so slightly.

“I always worry I’m talking your ear off,” she admitted quietly, looking up at him and biting down on her bottom lip with a look of worry. “I don’t mean to bombard you,” she whispered, playing with one of her nails, her eyes dropping to her hands.

“I like to listen,” he said, shrugging the shoulder she wasn’t currently resting on. He made a mental note to not drink so much in the future, for he noticed he didn’t mind her physical contact like he often would.

She looked up at him with a look of pure disbelief written across her face. “More like you don’t like to talk,” she countered, drawing her feet under her, her legs leaning a bit on one of his thighs. She wrinkled up her nose as she spoke.

He locked their gaze, raising his brow at her. “Is there a difference?” he inquired, smirking at the huff she instantly produced, throwing her head back a bit dramatically.

“Yes, Malcolm, there is a difference. If you don’t like me chattering away like some chipmunk in your ear, just tell me. I can forego speaking,” she said, folding her arms against her chest, keeping their eyes locked to try and stand her ground.

He didn’t verbally answer her, a smugness creeping into his chest as he realized she wouldn’t manage to stay silent for very long. At least not if she was this drunk. He relaxed deeper against the cushions of the couch, closing his eyes. He could feel her every movement, he wasn’t worried about her getting the drop on him in some way.

She managed to be quiet for almost half an hour, and 47 was getting close to congratulating her, when he heard the telltale sound of her sucking in a deeper breath of air. He was preparing himself to point out her weakness when she asked, “You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”

He opened his eyes, looking down at her as she pressed her cheek into his chest. Steadily, as the alcohol wore off and the contact increased he was losing his comfort. “Yes. Early,” he answered, his muscles tightening up subtly as she fiddled with one of the buttons on his dress shirt, his suit jacket still thrown over the back of the couch.

“Do you know when you’ll be back this way?” she questioned, shutting her eyes, her hands relaxing against his stomach. She had managed to fit herself around his gun, seemingly unbothered as the magazine dug into her ribs.

“No,” he answered, running his hand along her spine between her shoulderblades. He’d seen many people do this, he’d felt her do something similar to him, and it seemed to relax her. He didn’t know what else could be done at any rate. He wasn’t about to just disregard his work for her.

“Well, you’re always welcome here,” she informed him, her voice settling into something he could only describe as ‘sleepy’. He merely hummed in return, figuring if he could let her get to sleep he could sneak away.

It turned out it wasn’t so easy with her asleep. He knew she needed sleep, and that thought kept him in place for over an hour. Though with the alcohol well out of his system his level of comfort was back towards non-existent. Everywhere she was felt like needles poking him, the back of his neck experienced the uncomfortable hair raising feeling he associated with someone being behind him.

But each time she exhaled her breath was hot against his chest, her fingers were faintly gripping at his crisp, white dress shirt, and she had curled herself into an amusingly small ball. He found these things endearing, almost to the point of wanting to experience it for longer. But he had places to be, and waiting until she woke up would make it more difficult on the two of them. He tested it, slowly, checking to see how much he could get away with while she remained asleep.

He finally was able to slide out from under her, and he was prepared to leave then and there as he pulled on his suit jacket. But the couch was not a comfortable place to sleep, and the dishes still sat on the wooden coffee table. He knew Arleen didn’t like mess in her home.

He slowly got her in his arms, holding his breath as if defusing a bomb. This was more stressful than any bomb he had disarmed, however. Far more stressful. But, eventually, he got her into his arms, holding her close against his chest. 

His back tightened as she shifted a bit, rousing just enough to bury her face against him, one hand grabbing his tie. He looked at the ceiling as if it would grant him some measure of power to finish this task quickly, clenching his jaw tightly.

His pace was smooth, silent, and getting her out of his arms and into her bed was far easier than getting her off the couch. Except for her grip on his tie, which kept him bent over once she was sinking into her obviously very soft mattress.

He eased one hand onto her jaw, hoping it would get her to wake just enough that he could get his tie away from her. It worked, in a sense, as her hand slid from his tie onto his wrist, sliding up to cup the meat of his palm before she buried her face deeper into her pillow, her hand dropping from his to curl into her sheets.

He released a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, drawing the blankets over her and stepping out of the room silently. He eased the door shut after himself, his ears focused in on the sound of her breathing, still steady and deep.

He turned off all the lights but the entry way light, using what little illumination it provided to quietly rinse the dishes and tuck them into the dishwasher. He placed the empty bottle of wine on the counter next to the sink. He checked over everything before stepping out of the front door.

He used the spare key from his pocket to lock her front door for her, and despite his wild disagreement with the practice, placed it right back under her welcome mat. The clock clicked over to 4AM as he pulled out of her driveway and headed back into Los Angeles to prepare to leave the country.

Though it was the dead of night there in California, in New York many folks were already up and at work. Jack had kept himself awake all night long until now just so he could make a phone call. As he listened to the steady ring through his phone, a sandy haired man looked down at his cell phone as it buzzed against the wooden top of his desk.

“Donovan,” he greeted as he accepted the call, turning his leather desk chair around to glance down into the city, lighting a cigarette as he listened to the man on the other end.

“You remember that attorney you told me to go to?” was Jack’s greeting, his voice holding something akin to excitement. For once he had some information that the man on the other end of the line didn’t.

“Makem? What about her?” he asked, his voice finally gaining some interest. 

“I think she’s dating some guy an-” 

“Jack, I don’t give a fuck about your gossip,” he snapped into the phone, about ready to end the call.

“No, no! Listen. I got a bad vibe from the guy, man. He looked at me like he was going to skin me. Or eat me. Or both.”

“I’m sure lots of people look at you that way, Jack. What does any of this bullshit have to do with me? Why should I care?”

“Lucas, man, listen. This guy made faces like you do, he dressed kinda how you do. I got the same vibe from him I got from you when we first met. I mean, seriously, big fucker, tailored suit jacket for a holster, red tie, bald hea-”

“Did he have a barcode on the back of his head?” Lucas asked suddenly, yet again cutting him off.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” Jack asked, wondering if Lucas some how was friends or a contact of sorts with the man he had seen in Arleen’s office.

“You don’t get this far in this business without knowing that guy. Thanks for the information, Jack. Keep it up,” he pseudo-praised the younger man before ending the call without a formal goodbye, crushing his cigarette with his bare fingers over his ashtray.

He dialed a new number with his free hand. “Andre, get me a ticket for Los Angeles,” he ordered, getting up from his chair to head home to pack. He’d have to pay Arleen a visit.


	10. Chapter 10

Arleen found herself in her bed, still dressed, with the taste of wine sticking to her mouth unpleasantly. She groggily got up, shuffling out to her kitchen to get coffee, and it wasn’t until she found her backdoor locked that she remembered the day before.

47 was nowhere to be found, and his answer of ‘early’ replayed in Arleen’s mind as she looked out at the sunrise, blowing away the steam rising from her coffee mug. But Arleen wasn’t the sort to hold a grudge of any sort, so she tells herself that she simply can’t remember whatever goodbye they shared. She did drink last night, which was something she didn’t do too often.

Arleen decided that cleaning house today rather than tomorrow might be a good idea. It was a deviation from her normal schedule but she didn’t figure she’d have too good of a time trying to read through her cases today. So she got herself into a housedress of hers that she wore almost exclusively for cleaning or lounging, and tied her hair back in a braid.

She was almost done with the floor of her breakfast nook, all the furniture pushed onto her carpet when her doorbell rang. She huffed some flyaway hair out of her face before pushing herself to her feet, dancing around the table before simply pulling the front door open, not checking to see who was there in any way.

Lucas stood there with a devilish smile, his dark hazel eyes locked onto her face. “Hmm, in a dress with raw knees, just how I like you,” he greeted, gesturing to her and smiling brighter at the almost bored expression she shot in his direction.

“Well, Lucas Donovan, I told you I hoped we wouldn’t see each other again,” she said, half chiding him with her nose wrinkled up. They had built up a decent rapport over the years, she had met him before her divorce had been finalized. He’d been a supportive presence, and whenever he found himself in legal trouble she was there to help him.

“You’re breaking my heart, Arleen,” he said, laying one hand over his heart. He gestured into her home, craning his head slightly to glance around, though he knew 47 couldn’t be around. He’d never seen him in person before, but he doubted a man like the man he had heard tell of wouldn’t be sniffing around, coming to see whom was at the door. “You free to spend some time?” he asked, grinning at her wide enough to show off several of his replacement teeth. “Or do I need to let you get back to whatever has you kneeling?” he inquired, raising his brows as he pointedly looked at her red knees.

“Oh, what sort of trouble are you in?” she asked, shifting out of the way, gesturing one hand towards her living room to invite him in. “And for your information I am cleaning my floor. If you did it for yourself you might know how your knees feel after,” she teased, wrinkling up her nose at him again.

Lucas held a hand up before nodding his head towards the black Lexus he had come in. “Let me grab some things, but I ain’t in trouble,” he said, flicking his hand towards her couch before he turned for his car.

Arleen wandered to her couch, leaving the front door open for him, deciding now was as good a time as any to take a break. She had only had her eyes closed for a few moments when she felt hot breath on her shoulder. She glanced to her right only to find herself face to face with a large rottweiler. 

Arleen, the woman that kept herself silent through a gun against her face, let out a loud shout of fear, and tried to scramble away. At the other end of the couch she found herself almost bumping into an equally large german shepherd, which barked before she could land on top of it.

She let out another fearful sound and tried to get onto the back of her couch, curling up tightly, eyes wide and locked onto the dogs. Thankfully she didn’t have much time to fret about the huge beasts that were now barking at her, for Lucas showed up moments later.

“Arleen, Arleen, they’re very well trained. They won’t hurt anyone unless I tell them to,” he cooed at her, setting down some take out boxes on her coffee table along with an old looking bottle of wine. “Now, come back down here and eat,” he said, patting on the cushions for her.

Arleen slowly eased herself back onto the seat of the couch, though she kept her knees against her chest and remained tense. “That isn’t remotely reassuring,” she whispered, her voice extremely quiet now, as if she were terrified the slightest increase in sound would make the animals go mad.

Lucas gestured at the dogs, causing the two of them to go quiet and make their way over to entrance of the hallway to the bedrooms. Only with them so far away was she able to relax a bit, though her eyes remained in that direction while Lucas took it upon himself to grab two wine glasses, carefully stepping on the clean floor.

“God, Arleen, they’re not bears. They’re dogs. Dogs that I have personally trained,” he said, opening up the wine, pouring her glass slightly more full than his own. “This should breathe, but you look like you need a good sip of it now,” he joked, patting at her knee with one hand.

“Okay, really, what sort of trouble are you in?” she asked again, her voice shaking as she tried to bring herself back down from the peak of fear. She took a sip of her wine as he gestured for her to do so, painting her lips.

“Fuck, Arleen, you’re all business, ain’t ya? Can’t someone just come around, say hi, see how ya doing?” he asked, sounding hurt by her assumption that he was merely there for her legal advice. Just as he hoped, his subtle manipulation had her shoulders drooping and her teeth scraping along her bottom lip.

“I’m sorry. But, forgive me, you live in New York so seeing you in these parts means you came out here for something,” she pointed out quietly, shifting her hands out of the way as he put one of the boxes in her lap.

“Yeah, my company sent me over here to work on the finances. Apparently the financial head here don’t know shit about shit, so they want me to go over some things with him. Figured I’d spend some time with you,” he explained, popping open his own box of food.

Arleen squinted at him, as if she didn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth, but she slowly eased herself into a more proper position, thanking him quietly for the food and the wine, though she is very careful to rarely sip at the alcohol. She doesn’t want a repeat of last night.

“So, tell me, I’ve heard through the grapevine you’re seeing someone,” he commented, his voice offering a lead in the hopes of getting her to talk, taking a bite of the pasta from his box. He was instantly happy for having done so, as the expression on her face said quite a bit about it, and he didn’t want his smile to ruin anything.

“I wouldn’t call it seeing someone,” she clarified, though her expression remained a slightly trepidatious one, not sure how much she wanted to say about anything regarding 47, and she knew Lucas couldn’t care about her gossip. She narrows her eyes a bit, leaning forward. “Since when do you care about the relationships of other people?” she asked, tipping her head at him.

He held his hands up, smiling down at her. “Just curious. You seemed so against the idea of dating,” he pointed out before taking another bite of his pasta. 

Arleen pursed her lips, giving him a look of disbelief. “I’m not telling you anything until you tell me why you care,” Arleen informed him, finally nibbling at her own pasta. She didn’t know what it was, but something about his appearance, his questioning, it raised some alarm within her mind. As did the idea of talking about 47 to, well, anyone

Lucas mentally scrambled, trying to think of just how he could get her to talk about him. This was the infamous 47, after all, and Lucas not only wondered what he was doing interacting with some small time defender like Arleen Makem, but he feared 47. Any contract killer worth his salt feared 47. If Lucas could catch him unawares and take him out somehow he’d have ever door open for him.

His silence didn’t last long, he had gone too far in his life to make such a greenhorn mistake. Lucas decided the best thing to do would be to manipulate her emotions, so he sat one hand on her forearm, his fingers curling around her elbow. “I just remember William, Arleen. So I worry,” he lied, placing his free hand over his sternum, keeping his face placid, hiding any victorious feelings that swelled within him as he watched her deflate a bit.

Arleen’s eyes dropped to the box on her lap, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. Despite his answer, Arleen still couldn’t help the warning within her that said to not tell Lucas a single thing about 47. “I’m not concerned,” she finally said, looking back up at him, figuring out a good path to take so she could weasel her way out of saying anything too important. “We’re just friends, we’re both more focused on our careers, and I don’t believe he’s some criminal or the type to be needlessly violent,” she said, keeping her eyes locked. 

Arleen was a horrible liar, but if she could spin things in a way for her brain to rationalize as a truth, she could skip past even the most wary of people. She didn’t believe 47 was a criminal. Arleen defended criminals, and criminals often had a list of things they would do, stealing, selling drugs, trafficking other illegal products. And Arleen knew very well that whatever 47 did, it didn’t have anything to do with the string of petty offenses that paraded past her desk day in and day out. Arleen was sure that whatever he did was violent, but there was a need behind that violence.

“Oh? Well, what does he do?” Lucas pressed, wondering what lie she’d been fed. Or, worse, if she knew the truth and would try to lie to him. He fought down the urge to really try to dig answers out of her. If she managed to keep her mouth shut now he would need to keep the friendship intact to have another chance later.

“Military,” she answered, her attention returning to eating, but she sounded very confident in her answer. When Lucas scoffed quietly at the answer Arleen wrinkled her nose. “He showed me his dog tags,” she countered, thinking of the barcode tattoo she’d seen. She knew 47 was as much a military man as Lucas was a man that just did finances, but he did have some sort of identification number and that was enough for Arleen to pass off as ‘military’.

“So what does he do in the military?” he asked, hoping to corner her in some way, asking it in such a way that no one could consider it intrusive, as if it was a completely normal question, his eyes locked on his food, occasionally stealing a glance at her before returning to his box. 

Arleen shrugged in as nonchalant of a manner as she could, a nervousness she couldn’t explain rising within her. “What other soldiers do? Carry guns, perform recon, clean stuff,” she rattled off, purposefully being a bit sarcastic, almost to the point of being condescending. 

His mask slipped for just a moment as his eyes snapped to her face, darkened and devoid of all warmth. It was quick, blink and you miss it action, but Arleen felt her heart speed up a bit. She hadn’t been looked at that way since her ex-husband, and being alone in a house with a man she knew capable of many things, and his two beastly dogs, wasn’t the situation she wanted to be in when she saw that look again.

He was quick to cover it, smoothly transitioning to a bored expression. “Yes, Arleen, I know what soldiers do. What I meant was what does your particular soldier do? What rank is he?” he asked, lounging back in his seat as he took a long sip of his wine, hoping it would remind her she should be drinking as well, but he had no such luck.

“He’s not my soldier,” she said, almost exposing her teeth, put on the defensive. He was asking too many questions, and Arleen was getting nervous, almost protective for 47. “But I don’t know. I didn’t ask. A soldier is a soldier,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

Lucas suppressed a grin, touching Arleen’s bicep. “Jeez, Arleen. Are you that upset that I interrupted your Sunday cleaning ritual?” he asked, furrowing his brows at her.

Arleen shot a very sour look in his direction, a frown taking over her face. “It’s Saturday,” she reminded him, looking obviously frustrated, her irritation obvious in her tone.

Lucas barked a laugh that he tried to turn into a sympathetic groan for her, but he didn’t do the best job at sounding truly sorry. “Why are you doing your Sunday clean thing on a Saturday?” he asked, relaxing back into the cushions as he worked on the last bites of his pasta.  
“I felt a little under the weather, didn’t want to go into the firm. Figured I would clean instead,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders a bit. She knew she didn’t like her routines changed, but Arleen couldn’t stagnate for a day, it simply wasn’t her way. 

With the knowledge that she was so agitated, and feeling ‘under the weather’ - something Lucas didn’t believe for a second - he knew he wasn’t going to get any proper responses now. In fact, he wondered if she would ever give him the sorts of answers he was looking for. He was content to keep an eye on her, find things out for himself.

He switched their topic of conversation onto more pleasant things, making sure that by the time he left almost an hour later that she wouldn’t view him negatively any longer, hoping to preserve a way to get close enough to get to 47.

She watched as he led his dogs back outside, standing well out of the way to give the beastly creatures space. Arleen was sure they were sweet dogs, and she was sure that someone else would view them as adorable, but to her they were practically breathing out smoke and fire.

She made sure to really vacuum where the dogs had been laying on her carpet, exposing her teeth in displeasure. Once she was sure she had gotten rid of every remaining hint of those dogs, she finally returned to her breakfast nook, finding where she had been working on her floor and finishing that as well.

The entire time she worked within her home she wished she had some way to reach 47, as her talk with Lucas had left her with a bad taste in her mouth and a nervousness in her stomach. Something told her she needed to warn him about Lucas, but she fought with herself, calling herself paranoid. No matter how many times she tried to settle herself down, the feeling kept returning.

She managed to calm herself down after a few days back to work, and by Wednesday she had convinced herself that she was being silly. However, come Friday morning she saw him again, smoking a cigarette outside the courthouse. He had on sunglasses, she wasn’t sure if he saw her, but she doubted he was oblivious enough to not notice her. He seemed as aware of the world around him as 47.

She told herself he was still there for whatever reason he had initially come to Los Angeles. When she saw him yet again the next week, that particular lie didn’t cut it for her anymore. Each week she saw him somewhere near her work or her home, and it went on for over four months.

Arleen felt a bit on edge, and began locking her doors and windows like 47 had told her to, though she kept the spare key under her mat, just in case she locked herself out or 47 showed up. Despite her increased worries, she still was keeping her late nights, squinting down at case files or hovering over her laptop. 

She was starting to consider going to sleep when she heard a car pull into her driveway, pulling her hands from her keyboard, waiting to see if the lights from the car shined through her window again to signal it just using her drive to turn around, as happened from time to time. When she heard the door close, having to strain to hear it, she snagged a nearby letter opener and scurried to the hallway, parking herself right past the corner, listening to her front door.

She waited, coiled and alert, her back against the wall, biting at her bottom lip as she heard a key entering her front door. She held the letter opener against her chest, clutching it with both hands, trying to keep her breathing low and quiet, though Arleen doubted she could harm anyone, let alone someone she viewed a friend like Lucas, should it be him stepping into her entry way and easing the door shut again.


	11. Chapter 11

He stepped into the house, glancing to where Arleen must have been not long before as her computer was still on and steam was still rising from a mug of coffee. His ears easily picked up the sound of her breathing a bit hard around the corner and he focused his attention there. He tucked the spare key into one pocket, and grabbed a gun with the other hand. He moved silently along the wall to the entrance of the hallway, waiting by the corner for just a moment.

He shifted his gun, mentally drawing where Arleen’s head would likely be, and stepped forward, raising his gun up to dispatch his next victim with a clean headshot. As he came around the corner Arleen tightened up, clutching the letter opener uselessly against her sternum, screwing her eyes shut, only to open them again a few moments later at the lack of an attack like she was anticipating.

There before her stood a dumbfounded looking 47, gun held at just the right level to shoot above her head, though he slowly lowered it so it was pointing at the floor, his bright eyes locked onto her with worry, and frustration. “You’re holding that all wrong,” he coached, gesturing faintly to the poorly held letter opener.

She dropped it, as if it burnt her flesh, and pushed herself against his chest, which he allowed as his mind was reminding him that Arleen was a woman that previously left her doors and windows unlocked and thus would need a good reason to arm herself. “What happened?” he asked, his tone serious, his free hand moving around her shoulders to keep her close. 

He still wasn’t entirely sure about physical contact, but he had missed her, missed her small hands catching handfuls of his shirt or tie, the heat from her breath warming his skin, the smell of her hair as she pressed her temple against his jaw. 

“It seems silly now,” she admitted, pulling away just a bit. She remained within his hold, one hand releasing his tie in order to cup one side of her jaw, a flush showing in her pale cheeks, showing her embarrassment. Her other hand remained over his ribs, her lower body relaxed against his.

“What happened?” he asked again, his voice punctuating each word. Arleen wasn’t going to just start wielding a weapon when someone comes in through her front door. Something had hurt or spooked her, and 47 felt a swell of anger and a desire to protect her or seek revenge.

“Oh, this friend, well, sort of friend. He lives in New York and he does whatever it is you do but instead of calling it ‘military’ he calls it ‘finances’,” she explained, easing away further in order to bend down and pick up her letter opener. She was too focused on that to notice the look on his face, one of shock at her calling out one of his lies with such ease. He wondered what else she had figured out, and when.

“He came over, he knows I don’t like dogs and he just brought in these two huge dogs, asked a whole lot of questions about you. I just played stupid. Thought I got rid of him but he keeps showing up around the city. It’s been months and he still appears every week or two,” she explained, sounding drained by the whole situation, rubbing her letter opener blade and realizing it probably wouldn’t have done any damage even if she had to will to stab at someone with it.

She finally glanced up when he hadn’t offered any sort of feedback. Sure, he wasn’t a talkative man but he generally at least grunted or hummed to acknowledge her speaking. She tightened her eyes at his expression, the scars on her face more visible for a few moments. “What?” she asked cautiously, glancing behind her for a moment though she could tell he was focused on her before she returned her attention to him.

“How long have you known?” he asked, putting his gun away with slow movements, smoothing down his slightly rumpled suit thanks to her previous clinging. Once his gun was safely away he grabbed at her left arm, making sure to not grab her too roughly, leading her for her bedroom as he studied her.

She let him pull her, not asking questions about whatever was going on in his head. “You made some joke about not being a contract killer. And my New York friend makes similar jokes, wears a similar holster. But I’ve believed your name was fake a little longer,” she admitted, tightening up ever so slightly as he turned to lock his gaze with hers right before the door to her bedroom, their faces very close. His icy eyes scanned her face, looking for any manner of lie, and he was almost frustrated when he found none.

“You’re right about my name. About everything,” he said, leading her through the threshold into her room. He was kicking himself for not killing her back when it would have been easy. Now he was faced with doing one of two nearly impossible tasks. Either he had to be done with this trouble magnet attorney, or he had to figure out how to properly protect her. Either way, he had to tie this loose end up so he’d have to take her with him for the moment.

Arleen patiently stood once he released her, completely content to let him move through her closet to a suitcase within with an ease that told her he had already gone through every square inch of her home. She sat the letter opener onto her bedside table, folding her arms under her chest as she studied him.

“Are you going to tell me your real one?” she asked quietly, her voice barely audible above the sound of him opening drawers in her dresser. She paused when she noticed he was packing things into a suitcase. “What’re you doing?” she asked, her voice a bit louder now, her confusion allowing her voice to carry a bit more, yet it still was rather quiet.

“We aren’t safe to stay here. You’ll come with me for a while,” he said, his voice making it obvious he wasn’t going to accept anything other than her agreement. Arleen, however, wasn’t so sold on the idea, and she walked over to him, catching his left arm.

“I can’t just drop my clients,” she pointed out, wrinkling her nose, trying to sound more combative than she was, yet she still failed. Arleen simply wasn’t often the type to push back against others, particularly not people she trusted to the degree she trusted 47. Trust, she thought with vexation, put into a man whose name she didn’t know, and who had lied to her on most occasions they had interacted. 

“Oh, you won’t,” he said, as if it was silly to believe she would be dropping her clients. When he tried to move on in his packing she wrapped both of her arms around his arm, digging her heels into the floor beneath her. He easily could have continued moving, but he politely stopped so she could feel as if she had stopped him with her strength. 

“Care to explain?” she asked, locking her bright hazel eyes with his piercing blues, trying to stand her ground. It was just endearing to him and he twitched his lips to one side to avoid smiling. Now wasn’t the time to smile.

“If you keep seeing him around the city, he is probably checking you here, too. Continue with your routine but change your location. He’ll try to find your new location. Either he will find you and I will take care of him, or it will at least draw him from your home,” he explained, his voice a bit quieter than it normally was, which was saying something as he was never a loud man. But she was close, and she whispered almost perpetually, and thus he had lowered his voice to unconsciously match her volume. Plus, at times, Arleen seemed like fragile sugar glass, and he feared speaking too loud might cause her to shatter.

“I might be just paranoid. Maybe it’s not him, maybe he doesn’t notice or care that I’m there,” she argued, shrugging her shoulders but not easing her hold on his arm. 47 couldn’t pinpoint why, but her willful blindness in the face of danger almost angered him.

“Arleen, you cannot afford to be that way. Not everyone has good in them somewhere, and I doubt you’d mistake seeing him that many times,” he growled, easing his arm away from her so he could continue packing for her. “Now, come on, grab what you need,” he said, turning his attention back to his task.

He was fully prepared to deal with her continuing to bother him, but to his surprise she got to work gathering what she would need for about a week, not sure how long he’d demand that she stay in some hotel room. She disappeared into the bathroom to get her things from there, and he stalked around the house to check all her windows and doors one last time.

He met her by the front door, holding the suitcase he had packed for her in one hand, a garment bag over his shoulder. He furrowed his brows at the heavy coat she had nestled into, but he remembered it was winter, and he fought to a smirk. He would never call the temperatures of Los Angeles ‘winter’. But, she had her briefcase by her feet and her heels back on, giving her some much needed height.

“How long do I have to be away?” she asked, looking and sounding a bit like a child that had just been informed they would be staying with a not well known relative. Something about the way she looked at him, appearing even smaller than she truly was due to the size of her coat, the stress and anxiety having worn into her these past months, caused him to feel a need to reassure her.

47 realized how far out of his depth he truly was as he desperately attempted to formulate anything that could be considered ‘reassuring’. “Depends on how patient your friend is,” he finally offered, but instantly knew that wasn’t reassuring, and so he fumbled mentally for a few more moments. “It’s probably nothing. Maybe you’re right about just being paranoid,” he said, inclining his body towards hers, lowering his head so that he could catch her eye. Her bright eyes locked with his, searching for guidance. “Regardless, everything will be fine,” he informed her, his voice warm in the hope it would reduce those worry lines that were deeper than last he saw her. 

Arleen offered a smile of gratitude, able to see his attempts at stepping outside of his comfort zone. She stepped out after him, taking a moment to lock her door before moving to the passenger door of the car he was already stashing her luggage into. He always had different cars, but they were never rentals, and she had long ago stopped wondering about it.

The ride to the hotel is one of silence, the radio off as it always was in his car, her hands fidgeting with a button on her coat, her own nails, rubbing her thumb along the front of her phone. It isn’t until they were closing in on the hotel that she finally said to him, “I’m not afraid of him, you know.” 

He glanced sidelong at her before returning his attention to the road, setting his jaw for a moment as he considered. He considered arguing with her for a moment, she was very clearly afraid of whatever was coming through her door when he had shown up. But he had managed to avoid most arguments with her thus far, and he wasn’t yet interested in getting into one with a lawyer, let alone Arleen. He had no idea just how she was in a courtroom, but he had seen her start to grow stubborn over little things. He had no interest in riling her up before being trapped with her in a hotel room for the next few days.

“If he’s anything like me, you should be,” he finally commented, saying something so long after the fact she had gone back to her silent fidgeting and had to lift her head to glance at him again. He pulled into a spot in the parking garage of the hotel, finding one in the blind spot of the cameras he had mapped out previously. He escaped the car as fast as possible, though he maintained his smooth manner of movement. 

He hoped it would prevent her from speaking further, but of course as soon as she was out of the car she said, “Well, I’m not afraid of you, either,” in a matter-of-fact tone. She folded her arms despite holding her briefcase in one hand and her phone in the other as she studied him as he pointedly ignored her. 

He focused on the task of getting the rest of her things out of the car, leveling himself with her gaze and inclining his head almost threateningly in her direction. “You really should be,” he informed her, exposing his teeth a bit as his sharp eyes narrowed. He knew he shouldn’t be testing her so much, just in case, but it’s difficult. He doesn’t even understand why it’s so difficult, but he can’t help himself. He turned from her, locking his car over his shoulder as he stalked towards the entrance to the hotel.

She looked at him as if he was being silly. “You haven’t done anything to warrant it,” she said, her heels clicking in a pattern specific to her as she moved after him. She paused as he did, nearly running into his back as he had stopped so suddenly. 

He glanced down at her over his shoulder, frustration evident in what little of his face she could see. “Then you haven’t been paying attention at all,” he remarked, stepping away again. Each time he spoke he hoped it would be the last that would be said on the subject. He should have never responded to her words in the car he lamented internally. Despite it, he held the door for her into the hotel lobby.

Arleen automatically whispered a “Thank you,” in response to his holding the door for her, and despite it clear she wanted to keep after the subject, she said nothing further on it. She followed him without hesitation, mouth shut, eyes down, posture shifting towards submissive. 

47 almost wished she would have said something else, as the silence seemed worse. Most of the time the silence between them was comfortable, more enjoyable than the silence he felt when he took some alone time. This was a silence that rang in his ears and knotted his stomach, but he feared drawing attention to themselves. He anticipated she’d speak again in the elevator, but still she was silent. The only relief he found was that her submissive posture had disappeared and something defiant had blossomed. He much preferred her fiery.

She stood by politely as he carefully opened his door, and followed his silent hand gestures to stand in the corner and make no sounds, only her eyes moving as she followed his current position through the room as he swept it. She found it silly and without reason, an overly paranoid behavior of his, but she wasn’t about to disrupt his routine. 

Finally satisfied, he clicked on the lights, watching as she flinched at the sudden brightness. Before he could even move away from the light switch right beside her, she was happy to get right back into their former discussion. “I obviously have been paying attention, Malcolm,” she said, pointedly saying his in a way to remind him she knew it was fake, going as far as to make air quotes around it. 

“Then you’re foolish,” he huffed at her, annoyed that he had been caught in his lies. He knew he couldn’t avoid telling her his name for the rest of time. Yet again, the idea of killing her whispered at the back of his mind. 

“Maybe I am,” she admitted quietly, and the way she looked at him made him feel sick for remotely entertaining her murder. He sighed to himself, loosening his tie as he stepped away from her to put her things away. He had to look away and busy himself because she looked so vulnerable, so defenseless that it made his mind race. What if it hadn’t been him to come through her front door? Was it a danger she would have eventually faced or was it his presence in her life to put enough blood in the water to attract the sharks that were previously happy to ignore her? 

“I’d like to know your name. I feel a fake name cheapens our interactions, but I won’t push it,” she said, able to close the distance between them enough that he tightened up. He’d been too focused on his swirling thoughts of her safety and his ability to work all this out to hear her removing her heels, and coat, and stepping over to him.

He pressed his lips into a thin line, glancing to her for a moment before he searched the room with his eyes, as if it would offer him some help in deciding his next words. “I’m afraid that would make things more dangerous for you,” he admitted, shrugging out of his suit jacket as he looked back to her.

She cocked a brow, that feisty look creeping back across her pale face. “You’ve insisted that I stay in your hotel room due to danger. What could be worse than that?” she inquired, her hands settling on her hips.

“You haven’t been harmed yet. Trust me, it could be worse,” he said to her, removing the items from his person and laying them on a table next to a closed laptop. Arleen noticed just how many of them were weapons of some sort, and when he turned back to her she lifted her eyes from the table and back to his face. He hated the calculating stare she had on her face but he was backed into a corner. It was either keep her here with him, or stake out her place the entire time he was here in Los Angeles. This way allowed him sleep and the advantage that came from having safe ground he could manipulate to his needs.

“You think physical damage is something I fear?” she asked, trying to sound far tougher than he knew her to be. She may have lost some of the fear of physical pain thanks to her husband, but 47 was sure she would buckle at the right application of the right sensations. 

“You do, and if you don’t you should. And,” he said, leaning closer to her in an imposing manner just to watch her shrink ever so slightly before he continued. “If you think physical is the worst it gets you’re severely uninformed,” he nearly growled as he spoke, watching her pupils expand faintly, though she tried her best to stand her ground and maintain her posture. 

“Why are you trying to scare me?” she asked, her voice a bit quieter. Frustratingly, she doesn’t seem to fear him. He doesn’t know if she is that way with others that were a threat to her well being, or if it is some level of trust he had gained with her. He straightened away from her with a sigh, watching as she relaxed a bit as well at the way he deflated.

“I don’t think you know what you’ve gotten yourself into. What I’ve gotten you into,” he said, clarifying his own words because he should have known better. He did know better. Every step of the way he was telling himself to leave her alone or kill her or whatever else would make it so he didn’t deal with this anxiety settled in his stomach that came from her being in this bad of a position. At the same time, the lift he felt whenever he saw her always managed to make him stupid enough to find a way to reason it, to make it acceptable and something he could work around. Even this. He can fix this.

“So educate me, if I’m so ignorant,” she said, her voice steady but just barely pleading with him. “How am I supposed to take better care of myself if I don’t know what the danger is?” she asked, her tone settling right back into the soft, soothing tone it generally had. Her eyes remained locked onto his face, trying to keep his gaze, but her expression is tender, her posture softened out of the stiff and argumentative stance she had been in.

All of these changes worked on him, helped calm and relax him and he sighed to himself. “It’s late,” he said, running his fingers along the barcode on the back of his head. At her brow furrowing slightly he held his hands up as if unarmed, mirroring the position he had seen her use against him previously. “I will explain. There’s a lot to go over, but you have work tomorrow and I’m tired,” he said, hoping to delay this conversation for a later time in any way he could. He figured something would work on her.

Sure enough, she sighed and cupped his bicep. “Okay. But, please, promise me we will talk about it tomorrow?” she asked, knowing well how some would try to weasel out of something like this. She wants to cut off the chance, to impart upon him how important it was to her without pressing too much on the issue.

He studied her face, pulling in a deep breath to try and push down the swelling heat that grew in his chest at this proximity. “Promise,” he whispered, sounding defeated. He would try to find a way around it, but she was right. Ignorance would only keep her in danger. He gestured to the bed, and it was in that moment that he realized there was only one bed. “You get the bed,” he covered smoothly, straightening away from her.

“Oh, no,” she said, folding her arms and instantly getting right back into that closed off, quarrelsome posture. “Your room, your bed,” she argued. She isn’t as sharp sounding as she had been previously, though no one could call her earlier tone remotely vicious, but she is clearly attempting to put her foot down.

“You’re my guest,” he said, sneering as if he had just won the argument that easily, stepping away from her again to remove his tie. He hardly got a step away from her before she was fighting back, alerting him to her displeasure with his response with a wordless sound of indignation.

“I’m not your guest. This isn’t a guest situation. I’m not going to take your bed. You’re on vacation, you need a bed,” she countered, turning around and following after him as he carefully folded his tie and put it away in his suitcase and pulled out his gun cleaning kit.

“Fine, we’ll both use the bed,” he offered, jokingly, expecting her to be as flustered by the actual idea of it as he would be. Unfortunately, the sound she made was one of agreement, and he felt the blood drain from his face. He turned to look at her, brows drawn low over his eyes and obvious discomfort written across his face.

This is enough to break Arleen, and she sighed at him. “Alright, Malcolm,” she promised, using his false name as she had every time other than her snarky use of it earlier this evening. She touched at his arm as she passed in the hopes of settling him down, though the physical contact served only to further make him uncomfortable. 

She disappeared into the bathroom to get ready for bed, and he took the time to dress down as well, getting to just his undershirt tucked into his slacks. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, what little makeup she wore washed away and in her black silk nightgown, he was nearly done cleaning his guns. He looked up at her, unable to help a glance over what he could see from across the room. 

The wide scar on her wrist was always so obvious when her forearms were bare, but with her arms bare up to her shoulder it was a bit more obvious. Even from his distance he could see the galaxy of freckles all over her milky skin, and some odd desire to see them up close scratched at his mind. He forced his gaze back down to the gun in his hand.

Arleen did the same as he had done, looking him over from her far away position. She could see scars, far too many scars, along his arms. She felt a pang of fear hit her stomach. The scars she had were all from her ex-husband, except for those few from a standard childhood with two rough and tumble brothers, and the scars that came from cooking regularly. But they were nothing compared to his. For the first time she feared whatever it was he did. Sure, she had been nervous, but this was a fear that made her skin tingle.

It was a struggle for her to move as if nothing was wrong, to curl up under the blankets of the bed and click off the light next to her. She laid there, facing him for a few moments before she realized that it would be best to turn away from him. Arleen sunk down into the bed until all that was visible of her was the shape under the covers, and her honey colored curls flared out across her pillow.

He studied her form, watching the lump rise and fall subtly as she breathed. He knew she was still awake, so he finished up his work on his gun, before putting everything away and turning off the rest of the lights. He settled into a chair in the corner, relaxing back into it and happy he could sleep in almost any position. 

Unfortunately, the position wasn’t what kept sleep away from him. He listened to every breath, able to tell as she finally drifted to sleep. It wasn’t that her breathing was exactly invasive, but it was foreign to him. He almost enjoyed hearing her, being in her presence as she simply existed. But it absolutely was strange to hear someone so close to him. It took some time, but eventually, he managed to drift to sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

A black Lexus traversed the winding highway that overlooked the Pacific, one of the very few cars on the road. The clock in the dash console said it was just past 4 in the morning in illuminated digital numbers. It drove past Arleen’s home before hitting a turnaround down the road, pulling over to park in front of her home. 

Lucas smoothly exited the vehicle, easing the door shut in a well-practiced manner to reduce sound. As a general rule, Arleen would fall asleep between 3:30 and 4. Lucas had found if he came after 4, he’d have no issues getting in and out undetected. He, like 47, was prone to breaking into Arleen’s home.

He got the spare key out from it’s ‘hiding place’, though Lucas had always sneered at Arleen for this particular practice. He’d told Arleen long ago to not keep it somewhere so obvious, tried to get her to understand basic security, but she had dismissed him as being paranoid. He highly doubted he was the only one using that spare, he was sure 47 had done it. 

He eased the door shut as he slipped inside, the hair on the back of his neck rising. The house felt off, and Lucas glanced around to try and determine the cause. Her briefcase was gone from by the door, but that wasn’t terribly uncommon. He pulled in a deep breath of air, trying to see if there were any odd scents to the air. 

Any scent from 47 was practically the same as Lucas, and thus he was dismissing it as himself. He moved through her home with practice, having carefully mapped every creak of her home. He was half down the hall when he realized he couldn’t hear her breathing. Though Arleen happened to be a very quiet sleeper, Lucas could always hear her above the wind and the waves crashing upon the sand outside.

He still walked cautiously, peeking around the corner of her doorway. He dropped his vigilance, stepping forward into the room, frustration making him walk heavier, though still deathly quiet as he stormed across the room to her closet, looking up to the space where her suitcase normally resided. 

The lights were still on, things on the messy side. Arleen was the sort of woman to clean her home and turn off her lights if she were to leave for any extended period of time she planned for. He paced back and forth, growling to himself, mind going at full speed. This meant 47 had caught his scent. 

Lucas wanted to catch him off-guard, wanted to have the element of surprise to his advantage. He froze, a grin slowly growing across his face. 47 couldn’t stay in one place for too long, and Arleen wouldn’t leave the area for too long, too focused on her career to allow her to slip there. Lucas would simply return to New York for a week and then come back, check back here in Los Angeles, check back in on Arleen.

Some part of him had hoped to force 47’s hand in some fashion, but he had been too focused on the multiple different ways it could go to not make a set plan. Lucas was best in a physical fight, making snap decisions that get him the best result. Long term planning left him slightly out of his element. 

47 preferred to do things from a distance. Poisoning, sniping, staging an accident such as rigging devices to electrocute or explode on contact. True, he could physically overpower with the extreme ease brought on by years of extensive training, but he had the most practice in being away from the action. Things were cleaner that way.

Lucas almost exclusively killed people in their homes, preferring them to be asleep if possible, though he did regularly have to infiltrate areas with guards or multiple people. This meant physical combat occurred on a semi-regular basis. Should it come to a fist fight between the two of them, Lucas might have a slight upper hand. Lucas was younger than 47, by over a decade. Though 47 didn’t seem to age like most people.

He turned on his heel, stalking through the house to get back outside, putting the spare key right back under the mat. He ducked into his Lexus, driving away from her secluded home, turning onto the 27, heading for Van Nuys, where a private jet from his company was waiting to bring him back to New York. 

While Lucas flies back home, the sun begins to rise in Los Angeles. Through most of the night, 47 was only able to get a few minutes of rest at a time before the mere presence of another person or the uncomfortable position he was sleeping in would wake him back up. He considers the merits of booking a second hotel room to save himself from dealing with the disruption of someone, even if Arleen was a remarkably quiet woman.

Her alarm filling the room with a shrill beeping that she thankfully responds to almost instantly almost fully confirms the desire to not go through one more night. But as he watches her sit on the edge of the bed, arching her back and combing her fingers through her curly hair through his half-closed eyes, he feels another swell of that curiosity that initially caught his attention with her. 

It frustrated him in some way. He had seen women that had stunning features, perfect bodies, in many different stages of undress but they were always out of focus to him, uninteresting in every way. 47 was not a man that stopped to smell the roses, but something about the way her black nightgown was twisted around her, clinging a bit to show him more of her body than he could in the professional wear he’d always seen her in, it made him pause. The way the black fabric made her pale, freckled legs, how the strap of it on one side had fallen from her shoulder. 

She looked right at him as if to make sure he was still asleep, and he fought to keep his breathing pace steady as she didn’t notice his watching her. Just one more reason for him to worry about her when he wasn’t in the area, he thinks to himself, as she seemed satisfied with his act of deep slumber. The frustration goes away somewhat as her attempts to sneak around without waking him are amusingly poor. 

He closed his eyes to allow her her morning routine, keeping vague track of her just to make sure she didn’t get into anything. He furrowed his brows when, after only a few minutes she was by the balcony door, and when he heard the click of the door unlocking got him to peek again. She glanced his way as if to be sure she hadn’t woken him before she slipped outside.

His head popped up, his icy blue eyes opening in shock at her simply stepped out onto the balcony without glancing around first. He was up and after her before she was fully past the sliding glass door, his movements silent as he came up behind her, keeping her unaware of his presence. 

The frustration died in his chest as he first saw her up close after she had just woken up for the first time. The golden glow from the first rays of the morning sun bathed her in a soft light, her hair tousled and that shoulder strap still down across her bicep, looking wistfully at the horizon. She looked soft, small, vulnerable and it tugged at something deep within him he had rarely felt, and never so strongly.

“What are you doing?” he asked patiently from directly behind her, tightening up slightly in surprise as she let out a strangled gasp as she jolted and whirled around, dropping her coffee and scrambling away for a moment before she realized it was him. Both hands pressing hard against her sternum, looking around, her bright hazel eyes wide before she locked that warm, trusting gaze onto him.

“I-I watch the sunrise most mornings,” she explained, voice tightened with the momentary fear of being snuck up on, her brows drawing low over her eyes in confusion as she inclined herself towards him again.”What are you doing?” she asked in return, her tone turning almost like that of a nearly fed up mother as if scolding him for scaring her.

She brought her upper body closer to him while posing her question and she was finally close enough that he could take her by her arms, his hands tingling at the skin on skin contact, his touch tender and not commanding as he cupped his palms around her elbows, stepping backward to draw her back inside. She increased the physical contact by turning her arm over at the elbow, lowering that hand from her sternum and gripping faintly at his forearm.

“It’s dangerous, Arleen. Remember?” he asked, his voice as gentle as his touch. She relaxed visibly at his touch, and for the first time, 47 realized that his hands were able to elicit a positive response from her as easily as they could injure. Once he had her back over the threshold to the room he shifted the two of them to the side, slowly easing her against the wall as his eyes scanned the world outside.

Arleen found herself with a teasingly small gap between her and 47, her eyes locked onto his face, so close she could feel his breath. He shifted his hands from cupping her elbows to flattening on the wall behind her. As he craned his neck slightly for one final look she suddenly whispered, “You don’t have a name, do you?” She realized that, perhaps, the barcode tattoo wasn’t his choice to have branded into his skin.

He returned his attention back to her at her question and felt a jolt of excitement move up his spine, his pulse quickening, instantly pulling his focus from her inquiry. He pulled in a breath to try and steady himself, but the action caused her scent to hit him, more intense due to her just waking up. The proximity for once is making him feel more comfortable, not less, something primal overtaking the trained response.

He feels out of control, almost drunk, though he knows he is sober. His mind is focused on the contact of her hand on his arm still, the hazy look on her face as she continued to look up at him, the unanswered question forgotten by both of them now. He finds himself curious as to if she too felt the intoxication, or if she was unaffected by it. 

To test this, he brought up the arm she wasn’t touching, his movements slow, and mimicked what she had done to him before, cupping one side of her jaw. Her shoulders drooped, relaxing more than he thought she was capable of, her eyes fluttering shut and her lips parting ever so slightly, trying to get more oxygen than her nose alone was providing to deal with the racing of her heart.

He felt powerful, more powerful than he did when he was crushing a throat with the same hand he was tenderly cupping her cheek with currently. The hand that had remained on her sternum now rose to curl around his wrist, her fingers barely brushing the meat of his palm, and she pressed into his almost loving touch. Her other hand slid along his arm until she was gently gripping his muscular bicep, his skin tingling wherever she touched, and he shifted his hand so it was resting across her ribcage, again marveling at how fragile she felt in his grip.

Her second alarm went off, causing the both of them to jolt a bit, causing her to press a little closer and causing him to hold her a little tighter. For the first time, it’s Arleen that stops the affection, both of her hands pressing tenderly against his chest. “That’s my ‘you better start moving’ alarm,” she whispered with an apology in her voice, looking up at him with a desire to ignore the beeping if only for a bit longer, but her dedication to her job wins out. 

They linger for just a moment, both struggling to fully kill the moment, but she finally breaks away, her hands trailing off his chest before diving into her wild hair as she stepped away, trying as hard as she possibly could to get her heart to stop hammering in her chest. She disappeared into the bathroom while 47 tried to decipher odd, new emotions he was feeling. He was different in that he felt anything at all, but those emotions he had felt hadn’t expanded to something romantic. 

Thus far, his feelings towards Arleen had been fairly close to the feelings he held for the few animals he had grown attached to in his life, particularly that of his youth. That desire to protect something defenseless, something that didn’t want to hurt him like everyone else. Whatever it was he was starting to feel was different, and he knew he’d be stuck on this for some time.

It seemed far too soon that Arleen was ready for work, and 47 felt a strange dread in his stomach as he watched her put on her heels. He knew he couldn’t be too close, couldn’t risk being seen by someone he didn’t have the first clue about, someone who might know exactly what he looks like and is actively looking for him. He needed to be as tactical as he could possibly manage and be defensive rather than offensive. That wasn’t his strong suit in any sense of the word, and so he was almost justifying this entire situation with him merely using their potential danger as some elaborate training exercise.

But as she left she cupped his jaw, her thumb drawing along a scar on his chin. Neither of them had yet to say anything since her alarm had gone off, and he was lost on what, if anything, was the right thing to say. Her caught her wrist as she went to leave, learning that a slow movement was best to get the reaction he wanted, as this stopped her dead in her tracks, though he realized it was likely that some of that reaction was due to the scar he could feel, and he drew his thumb along it, hoping to lower her defenses of being touched there.

“Be safe,” he finally offered, the words sounding foreign as they came from him. He hadn’t been sure what to say, and the thought of keeping her safe was at the forefront of his mind so that was what came out.

There had been very few people he truly wanted to keep safe, but those he sheltered he often could protect them through some rather extreme circumstances. So long as no agency caught wind of Arleen, 47 believed he’d have an easy time of it. Even if they did, he was sure he could outwit and overpower any enemy. He was still human enough to have some arrogance.

She eased her body a little closer, the look she gave him holding a heat behind it that made his breath hitch, though something about the way her lips were curling told 47 she was amused by his farewell. “Have a good day, Malcolm,” she whispered, easing her wrist from his grip as it was making her stomach knot up, but taking peace in knowing that if he really wanted to keep her there he’d be able to with utter ease.

The anxiety was alien and unwelcome as it rose in his throat like bile as he watched her move down the hallway and disappear into the elevator. He shook his head viciously as he locked the door, pouring himself into his morning routine, needing to clear his head before he could do anything to gain more information, take any additional steps for safety. 

It was completely against his emotional desires to not follow her, but he knew it was best for what he wanted. There was a reason he was the odd one out for having any semblance of emotions. Sure, in some ways it helped him to think more like the standard person would, to better anticipate their actions, but too much emotion clouded your judgment, distracted you, and in a profession where distractions were deadly he knew he had to prevent it from overwhelming him.

So he began to put himself through his routines, attempting to discover the best way to banish the memory of her body almost touching his, of the heat in her eyes, the way his knees felt weak. Fighting it seemed only to make it worse, so instead, he began to analyze it, spending his entire run going over every emotion and every movement. 

It helped, somewhat. He just needed to stop it from taking over his focus, his mind buzzing as he showered and dressed with how to gain an upper hand, any upper hand. He got himself a phone and some cameras before he headed to Arleen’s home, making his way inside as if he owned the place. First order of business was quickly locating the box of photos he’d seen before and had skimmed through, not giving them too much attention. He looked at the backs of several photos in the hope that a woman as organized as Arleen might have written information there, but no luck.

He began the process of identifying strangers in her pictures, going over every story she’d told him. The wedding photos helped him to weed out several people, but he was still left with a few photos of men and nothing to guarantee that any of them were the right men. He studied them all, taking in every feature so he could remember each face, but he did snap pictures with the new phone just in case.

He took the time to put everything back as it had been, the room uncharacteristically a mess due to his sudden appearance last night, before he returned to the main part of the house, looking up at the painting hanging on her mantle. With a sinking feeling he worked on putting up cameras at her back and front doors, his hands steady despite the knowledge that, should he get the footage he was after, it would likely be at the expense of Arleen’s life.

Perhaps that was inevitable, he certainly wasn’t made for this. He could hardly make a long distance friendship work that was mutually beneficial, let alone romance. He pushed the thoughts away as he tested the cameras with his phone, making sure he could manually see the cameras at any time but that he would be alerted to movement. 

Once satisfied - well, as satisfied as he’d get for now, anyway - he locked up and headed back for his car. His mind was a torrent of anxiety, trying to figure out a plan of attack for a highly unusual situation, but 47 had long ago learned that no matter how odd a situation might be he could always find a way to turn out the victor. As 47 moved down the highway back to his hotel, Lucas was waking back up as his plane was about to start its descent.

Lucas had long ago grown used to running on very little sleep but was appreciative of the attendant that brought him a cup of black coffee. Like Arleen, he had long ago let go the desire for coffee to be sweetened in favor of a faster delivery system. Thus, he almost exclusively drank coffee - whatever coffee he could find - as it was. It was simply a part of their chosen fields. 

He got right back into his sleek black Lexus, flown with him in the cargo bay, and drove back to his brownstone home in the Upper East side of Manhattan. He took a moment to slide his wedding band back onto his finger as he stepped away from his car, locking it with the fob over his shoulder before unlocking his front door all in one smooth motion.

His wife watches him with a concerned expression as he changes into a new suit, their conversation hushed to avoid concerning his step-son, though the young boy had learned that silence was disturbing when both adults were home. Their farewells are brief, Lucas hoping to return to work without being noticed. He’d been dodging his boss well, though he knew the news of his absences would have reached him by now.

 

The look his personal assistant gave him as he left the elevator to get to his office let him know his boss was waiting. Sure enough, he was there to give Lucas a rough tug on his leash with his threats and his hands, letting him remember the weight of his displeasure for the rest of his day, deepening the fire within him to take down 47 by any means.


End file.
